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NYPL RESEARCH LIBRARIES
II
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THE
ST. JAMES'S MAGAZINE
AND
UNITED^EMPlRE-JtEVIEW.
...CAN//, x
VOLUME x#Hr
yftM
JANUARY TO JUNK 18?7.
LONDON:
CHARING CROSS PUBLISHING COMPANY, LIMITED,
5, FRIAR STREET BROAinyAY, fc.O/
1«77.
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rillMbl) BY THE CUAUINO CUOSS PUBLISHING COMPANY, LIMITED.
5, FRIA1I STHKLT, UUOADWAY, B.C.
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COS'TESTS OF rOLUMIi XXXI.
Fkomktiiia. By Ellis J. Davis.
Chap. 1 .— Introductory -
2.— In London - -
3. — Strange Events
4.— A Pursuit • .
5.— At Midnight- -
6. — An Introduction
7.— Promethia - -
8.— Tho Quarrel- -
9.— AKW,m« -
10. — More of the Doctor
11. — Advanced Science
12.— Some Lunatics -
la-" I love thee" -
14. — Women's War -
15.— Down the Tunnel
16, 17— A Strange Dream
18. — " Thou art mine '*
19.— Tho Imago of Wax
20.—** It cannot be "
21.— Genesis - - -
22. — u I have no soul "
23.— A Mid-day Slumber
2 1.— The Doctor Triumphs
25.— Promethia' a Slumber
26. —The Doctor's Reasons
27. — An Interference on
my Behalf- ■
Pauk
1
9
IB
20
119
124
133
138
145!
152
159
235
242
'249
257
351
359
368
376'
467
475
483|
490(
585;
597
607
Osi.r a MosioMaster.
Aikio- Kortright.
By Fanny
Chap. 9— A Poor Wooer - - -
10. — Ithama'* First Love
Letter ....
11. — The Power of Music
12.— Temple's Bachelor
Uncle • - - -
13.— Hor.it ia 'm Love- -
1 4.-— Closer Acquaintance
39
14
47
51
2«K>
206
Paol
Only a Music-Master- co,rfiH»i<i.
15.— Parting 210
16.— Meeting of OldFriend* 309
17.-HydePark - - - - 315
18— The House in Park
Lane 319
19.— A Visitor to Lotty - 325
20.— Henry Templo to
Ithama 328
21.— A Lovers Qnarrel - - 400
22— The Reconciliation - 403
23.— A Wedding Party- - 406
24.— A Star gone out - - 411
25.— A Vision 415
26.— Ithama to Henry - - 417
27.— A Weddiug - - - - 516
28.— Ithama to Henry
Temple 521
29. — Improvements in tho
Old Manor House - 523
30.— Horatia and Ellen ro-
turn to the Work - 5C8
31.— Lotty's Penitence - 531
32.— Henry Temple to
Ithama 533
33.— A New Speculation - 536
31. — Tho Laocoon - - - 540
35.— Redurgit 646
36.— Death 618
37.— An Explanation that
ends in Darkness • 652
38. -Nemesis 659
39.— Henry Temple to
Ithama MM
14).— A New Institution - 671
41.- 674
42.- 074
43. - -Hnmlia to Vulorio'i
Brotlvr ---. 675
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Pa en:
Guoweth down likk a Toad-
stool. By Lucius Broughton.
Chap. 13.— The Storm .... 81
14. — A Maiden's Vengeance 87
15. — A Change in our
Prospects ... 93
16.— Doing my Duty - - 98
17.— My Return .... 184
18.— I come to a Dead Stop 187
Valentine Humfrev's Trust. By Nora
Neville - - -" - 111,-224,338,425
A Chat about the Post Office. By
M. G. M. 212,301
A Cup of Tea in Gray's Inn Road. By
J. G. Harwood 556
A Flower Song. By Roger Quiddam • 517
A Flower Story. By Roger Quiddam 542
A Happy Land 499
A Presence which is not to be put by.
By B. N. C. - 645
A Seizure for Queen's Taxes. By
James George Harwood 635
A Song for the Girl I Love. By Fre-
derick Langbridgc 576
A Sone of the South. By Leonard
Lloyd 104
A Troublesome Girl. By Theo. Gift . 72
Bethune. By Jacob Scott .... 279
Buried Seed. By A. Johnson-Brown 300
England's Colonial Empire. By J. F.
Vesey Fitzgerald 693
In a Rose Gardon. By H. L. N. . - 634
Latter Day Verse. By H. T. White - 5i9
Love versus Learning. By C. C. W.
Naden * - - - - 621
Magic 505
My Picture: a Royal Academy Story.
By Mrs. Leith-Adams 704
OllaPodrida- - - 117,231,465,577,712
Paoe
Only a Retrospect. By Constance
Harte 192
On Poetry. By D. R. VViliamson - - 420 •
Our Modern Poets—
6. Matthew Arnold. By Thomas
Bayne * .... 436
7. Charles Kingsley and Arthur
H. Clough. By S. R. Towns-
hend Mayer 265
8. A. C. Swinburne. By Thos.
Bayne 436
Recent Political Agitation. By Ed-
mond Gaisford 332
Ritualism considered as an Antag-
onism to Rome. By Roger Quiddam 677
Shake Hands. By Jacob Scott- - - 106
Sister Agatha. By Roger Quiddam • 448
Song of the Morning 398
Sonnet. By Horace Lennard - - • 555
Sweet are the Uses of Adversity. By
Benjamin Forster 633
The Author of the Passion Music,
Johann Sebastian Bach. By
Archibald: Granger Bowie .... 386
| The Author of " Victor Lescar." By
I Geo. Barnett Smith 165
; The Czar Nicholas' Letters on the
Crimean War. By John Augustus
O'Shea 24
The Grey Shawl. By W. C. Bennett 514
The Rain. By Horace Lennard - • 692
The Voyage to Come 58
The Water Lily to the Maiden ... 183
To Agnes, who is his only Love - - 57
To Zara, whose Heart he knoweth not 464
Two Sonnets, Winter — Spring. By
D. R. Williamson 201
Venite, A Spring Song. By Roger
Quiddam 277
Vivisection, A Plea for its Suppression.
By Edmund Gaisford 568
Wagner in London. By Archibald
Granger Bowie 622
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\v\!yV ':'"-.' v
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THE
St. James's Magazine
AND
Inito €mpr* gjlrfriefo-
Promethi a.
By ELLIS J. DAVIS,
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
AM a production of the nineteenth century.
I do not believe any age other than the present
could have produced such a specimen of humanity.
No time in the annals of the human race could
have given birth or culture to such a being. Is this statement
disparaging to the age or to myself? Neither to one nor to
the other. The world grows with its inhabitants and the sur-
rounding universe, and at no two successive periods of time is
our or any other planet under the same conditions. The
inhabitants of the earth vary with the condition of its surface
and its astronomical relations to the other occupants of space.
Never through all the ages, unless indeed the whole course
of creation follows a similar rotation after a certain lapse of
years, will our earth be under the same conditions as at pre-
sent, and our social life is but a reflex of the variation of the
life of the earth as a member of the solar system. Man is
subject to the same laws as the world he inhabits.; without
VOL I igitizedby Vj<
2 Sf. Jamefs Magazine.
inquiring what his soul shall be, his body is part and parcel of
the earth, and earthy enough, and he lives but as the kind
mother allows him. We are an elder creation, perhaps only of
an infantile existence, but as we know and feel rather of an
approaching maturity than a new-born vitality. Our superiors
are on their way hither, but it will be some time before they
arrive. The Coming Race has not yet announced itself save
through the speculations of the fictionist
Meanwhile, the present age produces forms and natures its
own in every respect. Life changes with every other varia-
tion, and to the .present century a special class of beings
belong. The time produces its own children, and the universal
mother of man is the age in which he is born as much as the
planet from the dust of which he springs. I am a production
of the nineteenth century, and of this century only.
Dear reader, you are doubtless, like most Englishmen,
dubious of everything beyond the price of wheat and stocks,
and possibly the man-and-dog fight of Telegraphic mystery.
Assert your privilege of disbelief if you will : before you
have concluded the perusal of this introductory chapter you
will abandon doubt. Please do not skip it. I wish you to
know me, and how else but through this chapter am I to claim
the privilege of your acquaintanceship? Read on. Patience,
like virtue, is ofttimes its own reward.
Need I tell you that the new world had the honour of
supplying my first wants. For my part, the only reason
patriotism is a virtue is because our country does two things
— helps us at birth, buries us when we are dead. All else is
in our own hands, and who shall bid us thank a land for the
labour which supplies our own hard necessities ? It were in-
deed a different thing if one's birthplace flowed with literal milk
and honey, but for a mere permission to breathe and grumble
I see no reason to be thankful. However, to accord with
conventionalities, I will say I thank America for my birth and
country. She supplied my first wants, and they are indeed
those with which no man can dispense. I hold the require-
ments of babyhood the weakest part of human nature. Even
I was not superior to them. America supplied me with
the indispensable necessities of origin — viz., a father and
mother ; but the former was as benevolent as necessary, for
he died a few days after my entrance into the world — why I
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Promethia. 3
call it so you will presently see, — and left me a fortune more
considerable than the revenue of many a State, or the income
of the richest English peer.
My mother dFd me justice. Fee'.ing unwell, she went to
bed, and could do no more for me than lie there. As far as
I remember, I burst through the cerements of nature and
drew my first breath with less assistance than I shall require
to respire my last. Precocious, you say. Not a bit. As a
babe I knew the world was to be enjoyed, and I lost no
opportunity of entering it with the object of sounding the
heights and depths of pleasure. What was the use of delaying
matters and giving unnecessary time, trouble, and expense,
not to speak of anguish, to my beloved parent ? Even in the
womb I was famed for common sense. I would have spared
my mother all agony if I could, but then I was only an acci-
dent of nature and not its ruler, or even controlling power.
Ahs, my dear mother ! Well may I call her so. My fathers
fortune was left to me subject to her life interest, and she was
such a fond parent that rather than stand in her child's way
she determined to make no struggle against the cold hand
nearing her heart. Poor mother ! With me in her arms she
ordered her coffin, and did not allow it to remain empty long.
When she died I screamed out " Cremation," but they thought
I said "dill-water/' And very likely my utterance at four-
and-twenty hours was not quite perfect. Even the most
precocious baby is apt to be misunderstood.
Poor mother ! I loved you then, but I am not sure whether
I now wish you back in this sad world with me. Rest in the
grave. Even the monsters of this age respect the dead, or
pretend to do so, which for the sake of the repose of those
dear to us answers the same purpose. It is true that among
some the sacred feelings of respect towards our dead forbears-
is vanishing, but the cruelty which would outrage their last
resting-places is kept in check, and there are even some
people to be found who venerate their parents while they are
yet among the living.
It is not improbable that my state of orphanage preyed
upon my mind. I have heard that doubts were entertained
about my sanity on the matters of pap, milk, cream, and
babies' biscuits. Of the utility of such things as articles of
food I seem to have had considerable apprehension, Also
i*
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4 «S/. James's Magazine.
did I threaten my nurse's eyes, and occasionally cursed them
in the vigorous vernacular of the far west. But this early
period of my career fled with such rapidity that I can re-
member little about it save only that when three years old I
refused to have a nurse any more, and insisted on going to
school at once. My guardians had, I beg you to observe, little
voice in the matter. I went. I boast that from the act of
birthing myself down to the present time I never did any-
thing against my free will. No one can control the advanced
children of modern civilization, and I am a child of modern
times all over. But I must cut these preliminaries short.
As I said, I went to school at the age of three, and during
my first half I fought with and conquered no less than five
notorious bullies, and in the second I licked the masters
Like Caesar at the Capitol, I would say, " Young man, it is
as easy for me to lick you as to say I will;" and if the gentle-
man was obstreperous after that fair warning, I did as I
promised; and to do my schoolfellows and schoolmasters
justice, they showed a good deal of pluck in attacking or
resisting me at times, though I generally carried my point by
dint of sheer superiority of fo:ce. At four I had made my
way' into the first. form; at five I passed the most difficult
examination ; at six, I was told by the head-master that he
could teach me no more ; and at seven I left the private school-
Jiouse for the public one — the great wide world.
You wonder what a boy breeched at a year looks like
-when he arrives at the great age of seven. I will describe
him. My photograph at that age is before me.
I had not quite done growing, being some three foot six
inches in height, which was, I assure you, quite far enough off
from the ground in those days. My chest was beginning
to show immense width, and my limbs gave the strongest
evidences of gigantic muscular power. A broad forehead
betrayed vigorous intellect ; a firm mouth, resolve ; steely
blue eyes, resolution and caution; a prominent nose, pushing
powers and fulness of energy, — the ruling passion of the present
and the future throughout all that man governs. A capital
thing is a prominent nose : you always have something in
front of you.
My hair was brown-black, and thick, though in front there
were already signs of what would be premature baldness.
Promethia. 5*
This falling of the hair is a mark of early development only
to be met with among us fast livers, and by no means an
advantage to our personal appearance, for of all beauties —
and the human race can boast of many — the chief one is the
luxurious head of hair.
I took care that my dress should be by no means peculiar. I
wore neat check trousers, according to the fashion, over patent
leather boots, a frock coat of the most approved Broadway
cut, buttoned above an elegant waistcoat. I parted my hair
on one side, and put my hat on towards the other, in order
to give my face a bluff appearance, though I did not cock
it sufficiently over the left eye to make me look like a dandy.
For the rest, I always carried an elegant cane or smart
umbrella — the latter, as is the habit in America, generally the
property of somebody else; and I was never to be seen without
gloves, ^nd a handsome exotic in my buttonhole.
This is a pretty accurate description of my costume and
personal appearance at the age of seven. When I left school
I looked around me and considered life. What was I to do?
Professions were too slow, and the learned gentlemen who
practised in them myht have raised some objection on the
score of age, as they have more than once done on that of
sex when the ladies have asked to be allowed to earn their
living in the mode best suited to their capabilities : they might
have said I was too young. I say might, because this is only
a supposition. The universities and the professions have in
some instances admitted women, and why not infants, idiots
and lunatics at the same time ? A few more or less would
hardly have made much difference, but I saved them the
trouble of making a precedent in my case, for I did not ask to-
be admitted into either one or the other.
But my guardian said I must have a career of some kind,
and what career was open to a boy of seven ? Somebody
suggested the army, but I objected to practising butchery;
besides I felt confident that if I entered the army one of two
things would happen — either I should at first glance so
frighten the foe that they would run away and leave me
nothing to fight with or I should engage myself to the Island
power of Europe, and then I was safe never even to have a
chance of getting in the line of battle, for the Empress-Queen
never draws her sword except for the purpose of worrying a
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6 St. James's Magazine.
few poor savages. She talks a lot — not quite as tall as we
Americans do, but then we have done something recently,
and she — well, I'll not say what she has done. History will
have little to record of big Britain as a belligerent power
during the latter half of the nineteenth century, and that
little not much to her advantage. So I gave up any idea
of war, and having worn out every amusement presented by
New York city, I thought I would travel a while and see
what the world was like. I knew it to be a very small and
uninteresting place, but still as I had none other within reach,
I thought it as well to make the best of the puny globe and
its finikin inhabitants. Money was no object to me, as I
have already told you ; and so, without waiting for season or
being bothered at all about making arrangements to suit any-
thing but my own fancy, I started on my travels. Very soon
I left theYiew world behind, and made an entrance into the
old with a bounding heart and the prospect of enjoyment
before me.
Which of us gets what he desires ? Which of us plucks
fruit in this world's vineyards to find it as fair as it promised
to be when hanging in shining bunches before longing eyes ?
Before I had completed my twelfth year all the countries
of the civilized world had been explored in search of pleasure,
and I had found little, and turned to look at my native land
once more with a feeling of bitter disappointment in my
breast. It was miserable to find the world empty and sad
at the age of twelve, when most persons in Europe were
just thinking of school. Alas, I had to pay the penalty of
beginning life too early. I returned to America, and stayed for
a short time in New York. Money was abundant as usual.
My father's fortune procured me everything I could desire,
and yet often I wished I had not one penny or one friend in
the world. That was a sad time, and my heart was crushed
by it. I can only remember that for nearly two years after
my return I was wretched and dull. I remained in the town ;
I seldom left my house, and lived I hardly know how. I
suppose events did happen, but it seemed to me as if the
whole world was dead and buried, and I was living on in some
interior cavity away from everybody else, and merely sustained
in the region of mental knowledge by faint recollections of
having existed.
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Promcthia. 7
At fifteen I took a ship and made a voyage round the
world, never going on shore, and only stopping at such places
as occasion rendered necessary for the purpose of obtaining
coal or provisions. I remained on the ocean for two years,
and then returned to New York, where I varied the monotony
of existence for about a month by falling in love with all the
prettiest women of the season. Of course my usual fate fol-
lowed me. I got tired of that amusement ; they all fell at my
feet, and I was left without end or aim once more. My
uncle and I had one or two serious conversations about this
time. It appeared he was anxious for me to marry, and he
pressed the matter on me so enthusiastically that I began to
be bored by him. We had never had one difference before.
My nature is pacific, and I never quarrel, but, if angry,
annihilate my opponent without the least hesitation. Not
wishing to do so to my uncle and guardian, I removed from
New York and spent a year in sleeping, like a bear during the
winter. When I awoke I returned to New York, and there
passed the next few years of my life, feeling every day more
and more bored by existence, and only prevented from com-
mitting suicide by the fear of going into a duller world after
death. Oh, the terrible monotony of that time, I hardly
know how I was ever able to endure it. A frightful incubus
of experience hung on my shoulders, and if ever I fancied to
do the least thing it seemed to drag me away and bind me
where I was with a suggestion that I had done it before and
found it slow and unprofitable. I was thoroughly worn out
for this world. I would have given half my fortune for a new
sensation. I hope you will understand this position. It may
be difficult for you to realise it at first, but think if you can of
a young man of twenty who had seen everything that could
have been seen by a sexagenarian, who had read till there
was nothing left to read, who had been through every situa-
tion capable of affording interest, who had no amusement, no
object in life, and a ceaseless energy which made the owner
accomplish in a twinkling what would have taken an ordinary
individual days and days to overcome. Misery seized me.
I went to sleep again — how I do not know, but I recollect
the awakening well enough, and it is from that time when I was
just twenty-one that I will ask you to give me your attention
and sympathy.
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8 Si. Jamei *s Magazine.
It was late in the autumn of the present year, and I was
sitting in my drawing-room in New York city, where I occu-
pied a magnificent house entirely alone, when the door
opened, and a diminutive creature who I suppose called him-
self a man by reason of his head and chest, if on no other
account entered, and accosted me.
" Poor fellow," he said, " you have made a great mistake in
looking for novelty hitherto. I have lived fifty times over,
and the only place fit to live in is London."
I started and stared — both uncommon things enough for
me. I recognised the stranger as a man I had once seen
before, but where I did not know. Indeed, it struck me
I had seen him more than once. I replied, with a burst of
unusual violence,
" Oh, tell me, where is there something new ? "
He laughed at my energy.
" There is always something new for those who know how
to look for it. Go to London and find a ghost"
I jumped up.
" A ghost ! " I cried enthusiastically, " I have never yet seen
a ghost ; why did I not think of that before ? The super-
natural world alone offers novelty for me. Shall I find a real
ghost in London ?* But my adviser was gone. I fancied
his appearance must have been a trick of the brain, and
thought perhaps that the miseiy of inactivity had dulled my
senses. I rang the bell.
" John/ I said to my faithful servant, " I am going to
London in an hour. Get what things we want and meet me
on board the steamer."
John left the room with a bow, and I immediately dressed
myself, a requisite after my long nap, and walked down to
the place of departure. The different lines of steamers have
arranged matters so well lately, that an American can start
for England at any hour he pleases. There is a steamer leaving
every half-hour of the day, if you know where to find it ; and
as I knew the whole of the sea and the land by heart, I had
no difficulty in finding my way to the place of departure of
the ship I was in search of. Everything promised well for a
voyage; I soon arranged for any passage, and found out
that by spending a different minute with each passenger it
was possible to pass at least the first few hours without being
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Promethia. 9
absolutely bored to death. I was more composed than usual.
I sat down on the deck, and, for the first time for many a
year, enjoyed a cigar and a few moments of the existence
ennui had rendered intolerable.
Courteous reader, behold me there on my way to England,
and follow my adventures with as much interest as this narra-
tive permits. For the truth of what has gone before, I vouch ;
and of what follows, it speaks for itself.
CHAPTER II.
IN LONDON.
To arrive in the greatest city of the world under any circum-
stances is an interesting incident, and notwithstanding my
weariness of all things, I could not fail to be impressed with
the evidence of greatness and individuality presented to the
mind. It is a wonderful place this London. There is nothing
of old-world wonder about it ; nothing of romance ; nothing of
mediaeval quaintness; but it is no less impressive on that
account. It embodies the Anglo-Saxon genius. It is the
home of the greatest nation the world ever saw, excepting
only that marvellous, God-selected race which rose to glory by
the shores of the Mediterranean, in the far east ; but there is
no comparison between the Hebrew genius and the English.
Of course all nationalities who have received the descendants
of Abraham with open arms have benefited by the contact
with the wondrous mental vigour and energy of the chosen
race ; but the English Jew is much the same as the American
Jew at bottom. Always an alien, and only great so long as
he preserves his individuality and separate existence. The
Englishman is the most marvellous of all created beings.
Pushing his might and his vigour all over the world, England
is for ever bis home, and London invariably the pride of his
heart. Whatever home attachments may speak in praise of
the shore of Sussex, the moors of Yorkshire, the soft, genial
clime of fairy-faced Devon, vanishes in the far-off lands.
England is the country as a whole, and the man who thinks of
his greatness as an Englishman, has London and London's
wonders and solid magnificence in his heart when he extols
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io Si. Javiefs Magazine.
his country. And London has done well to deserve its
position. Nations may become temporarily great through
individual and ofttimes meretricious genius; but permanent
reputation for a nation, as for an individual, is only to be won
and preserved by the union of many qualities which go to
make up excellence in a race or a man. That which is to
endure must be worthy endurance. Nature has decreed it so,
and does not preserve the aspen with the same solicitude as
the oak.
I, an American and a wanderer, testified by my feelings of
awe to the true merit of the great city ; and as I drove through
the streets, familiar though they were, I could not but admit
that I was roused from my languor and extreme ennui into
something more lively. Alas ! the feeling was not enduring.
I had hardly been settled in my hotel when the same miserable
weariness of life seized me, and I cursed my folly in coming
to such a dull place. Throwing myself on the sofa, I was
about to give way to a fit of despair, when I remembered the
words of the visitor, and thought it as well to ask if a ghost
were at hand. The landlord of the hotel came on my demand-
ing his presence.
"I hope your rooms are comfortable, Mr. Harte," he said,
apologetically ; " you gave us no notice, or you should have
had the first-floor suite."
"Any rooms do for me," I answered hastily. "Tell me,
Is there a ghost at hand anywhere ? — a real, genuine ghost,
mind."
The listener stared.
" If you don't know, don't tell me ; but don't stand staring
there like a goose at a quart bottle. Is there a ghost to be
got at or not ? Do you know ? It is a simple question."
" But not easily answered. I will inquire."
And without another word he left the room. I waited im-
patiently for his return, and when he came in almost startled
him by the sharpness of my " Well ? " Englishmen are slow,
I must say. They want a lot of polishing to make them go
tk smooth and come up to the mark. Why does a man want to
vovle su°k a t*me *n com*nS out wfth what he has to say ?
that b\^r* ^arte, * have inquired," he mumbled at last, "and
was possuon'y find one house supposed to be haunted, and
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I interrupted him.
" If there is a haunted house, tell me where it is at once."
" I will write the address," he replied, and did so, with his
eyes fixed on me, and ah occasional glance at the door, as if
he feared me, and was anxious to make sure of his escape.
I took no notice of his agitation, but when he had finished
said —
*' I shall leave my things here, and return in about a
week or a month. Are you sure there is a ghost in the
house?"
" The facts, as far as I know them, are these. The house
is old, and shut up, with the exception of the basement, in
which an old woman lives. She will tell you more than I can.
It is situated opposite to a private lunatic asylum, kept by a
professional gentleman of great repute. A man died there
some years ago. He was immensely rich, and his death was
a suspicious one. It was said his eldest son had a hand in it..
No inquest was held, and the matter was allowed to drop
Some time afterwards, however, a report got about that the
house was haunted, and it is said that a ghost is frequently to
be seen at one of the windows and on the roof. Scientific
men have not been called upon to investigate the phenomenon
so it may be all moonshine ; but if you want to see a ghost, it
is worth paying the place a visit."
I had remained so quiet while the landlord was giving me
this information that he seemed quite reassured, and probably
put down my desire to see a ghost to mere curiosity and a love
of adventure. Permit me to say here, by way of explanation,
that a great many people, who would be ashamed to admit it,
believe most firmly in the existence of ghosts. Even among
the most educated classes spirits are popular; and I have
found it more difficult to find a person who doubts that there
are ghosts altogether, than to satisfy anybody of the reality
of spiritualistic phenomena. There was much reason in the
biblical precept enjoining the death of witches and persons
with familiar spirits. They do more harm than any criminals,
for they corrupt the mind, whereas the worst murderer or
ruffian only injures the body. The belief in the marvellous is
one of the most accessible portals to the entrance of error. In
America the thing is even worse than it is here ; but if the
charlatans who disgrace my country come to England and are
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12 Si. Jamefs Magazine.
made much of, goodbye to the integrity and honesty of the
Englishman. Perhaps exposure will be their fate ; but it
seems doubtful, for current belief is appealed to to aid the
worker of wonders. God's sacred word is forgotten or over-
looked, and yet surely a divine can place but one interpretation
on the words of Holy Writ ? Scripture has, moreover, given a
valuable illustration of the danger of dealing with the unknown
in the instance of Saul.
But whatever may be done in a few years, there can be no
doubt that ghosts are believed in ; and from one or two people
whose opinions I asked before I set out to look for my ghost,
I ascertained that their doubt was not as to the existence of
the ghost, but the likelihood of his appearing just when I
wanted him to. I found out also that the place in which the
house was situated was not of good repute, so I waited until
the following morning, and got sleep by the use" of coffee, a
thing generally supposed to have an opposite effect, but in my
case an invaluable soporific.
Early the next morning — a dull October morning it was —
I started to try and find the only excitement left to me. The
instructions of the landlord led me in a south-westerly direc-
tion towards Millbank Prison, and when I passed that vast
building, I could not suppress a sigh of pity for the unfor-
tunates confined therein. It must be a terrible thing to be
immured in a prison. Dull as I was, I had to admit there
might be a fate worse than ennui. Passing at the back of the
wall of the prison, and twisting among a labyrinth of streets
which follow the course of the river Chels^awards, I arrived at
an open space or small square which I ascertained to be near
my destination. It looked dismal enough. The dark clouds
hung low overhead, and a murky atmosphere, full of the damp
of the river, pervaded all the surroundings. It was not cold,
but damp and dismal, like the inside of a charnel-house. The
last night had brought down a great many of the brown and
faded leaves from the two or three sycamore trees whose
graceless arms stretched skeleton-like over the wall of a
garden ground. Perhaps in the summer they and their leafy
foliage hid the house behind the wall, and concealed the
barred windows from the passers-by, if there ever were such ;
but now the trees, with their faded and rotting burdens drip-
ping from the recent rains and the present mistiness, only
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Promethia.
13
served to expose the dull aspect of the house, as the moss on
the tombstone indicates the purpose for which it is there and
the thing it covers. A few creepers, free from all leaves save
those which were sear and red, clinging to the withes or held
to them by spiders web, had fixed on the wall of the house,
and by no means enlivened the general appearance of the old
red bricks. The chimneys had a miserable aspect, and a pair
of pigeons sitting on the low parapet seemed as wretched
as it was possible for any winged creatures to be. Not a
coloured curtain, not a flower, not even the back of a piece of
furniture was to be seen in the windows. The front of the
house, as visible between the two or three trees, presented an
unbroken line of sadness. This was the private lunatic asylum,
and on the post of the aged gate was a plate with the name of
Dr. Magnus Delgardo.
I cannot say I envied him his residence as I turned to look
for the haunted house.
I was standing in a small square, or rather alley. On one
side of it was the wall of the lunatic asylum, which might
have been about eighty feet in frontage. The house in the rear
stood on a considerable quantity of ground, and where the
wall was vacant, several trees rose behind it and flung their
branches over towards the street. In the further corner the
wall adjoined another, somewhat higher, and quite dead. I
could see nothing behind it, nor form any conjecture as to
what it concealed. It formed a right angle with the other,
and served as one wall for the first house of three filling in
the third side of the square. I had entered by the fourth
side. The square had apparently no outlet save the one by
which I had come. Of these three houses, the centre one
was Number Two, and the house I was interested in.
They were detached. The two were apparently inhabited, /
but there was no sign of life about or around them, while the \
third, or centre one, was closely shut up. It stood a little way x
back from the road, and had a few feet of garden before
it. Peering through the railings and the tangled and neg-
lected shrubs behind them, I discovered the windows of the
basement open, and with a bold and indifferent air I pushed
back the rusted gate and walked up to the front door of the
house. After a little search I discovered the bell, and rang it
with violence. Its peal sounded shrilly through the empty
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14 5"/. James* s Magazine.
passages of the deserted habitation, and must have roused
any person within, unless he or she belonged to the fraternity
of the seven sleepers. I waited patiently, but no one came to
answer the summons. I tried it again. Again the bell pealed
wildly, and echoed among the deserted chambers ; but no
answer. I thought I might as well try and let myself in,
but the door was secured. Descending from the front door,
I went to the kitchen entrance, which was approached by a
flight of steps, and found that unfastened. Taking French
leave, I entered, and found myself in a long stone passage.
My tread sounded hollow as I walked along, and, opening a
door on the right, entered the kitchen.
I cast my eyes around, and discovered it to be wholly
vacant There were two or three chairs and a large kitchen
table. The grate was empty, and the meat-screen stood on
one side, void of plates or dishes. The dresser was also nude,
save for a broken cup or two. The furniture, such as it was*
had not been touched for some time, for a thick coating of
dust and dirt lay on it. The corners of the room were tapes-
tried with cobwebs, and the gas bracket had rusted from top
to bottom. There was not a sign of living creature in the
room, and I turned from it, and, closing the door, proceeded
to the next one, which stood partially open.
As I pushed my way in and entered, a low sob caught my
ear. Nothing human ever startled me yet. In I went boldly
and with confidence.
On a low cane chair near the fireplace, a woman, or at
least a creature of the sex usually called female, was seated ;
but at first sight she looked more animal than human. She
rocked herself to and fro, but made no sound but an occa-
sional sob. The room was scantily furnished, and the rem-
nant of a fire was all that remained in the grate. On the
table lay a broken and battered bonnet, or hat, and beside it
a worn-out shawl. On these things my eye rested but a
moment. The next it passed from the woman and the table
to a black object lying under the darkened window. It was
a coffin, to all appearance nailed down and ready for removal,
though there was no pall thrown over it, and no indication of
any preparation for a funeral. I hardly knew which startled
me most, the unexpected sight of the coffin, or the sudden
spring of the woman off her chair, and back, cowering and
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Promethia. 1 5
frightened, into the corner of the room, muttering, as she sank
down,
" Not yet — not yet. Have pity ! "
She presented a strange spectacle. Her hair was dishevelled,
her dress loose and disordered, and her face dirty and hag-
gard. She seemed half-starved, and clenched her hands
together. She looked frightened and terrified, and her eyes
started from her head, but no light came into them. One foot
struck out from under her skirt, and it was shoeless, yet a
glance at it told me she was not of the lowest class of society.
From it I looked at the hands wringing one another, and
judged she had been well born. I paused a moment, and then
I said slowly,
" Can I stay here to-night ? "
"To-night — to-night," she repeated slowly. "You have
come to see the ghost, I suppose." And she came forward
and began to arrange her hair and fasten up her dress, trying
also to conceal her want of shoes. " You are another curious
one. Am not I nearly a ghost, and in life ? "
" I hardly knew what to answer. At length I said,
"You look very ill, and with one dead in the house too.
You ought to have some one with you. Can I fetch you
assistance ? "
She dropped into the chair, and covered her face with her
hands.
" Some one will help me. Ah, it is too late ; I shall not
live many hours ; but bury me with him, if you will be so
good. We were together in life."
" I shall go and fetch assistance for you/" I said quietly,
and moving towards the door as I spoke.
v She sprang after me and stopped me.
" No one will come. Go upstairs. I have all I want — him
and death." She pointed to the coffin, and then upwards.
" You can remain as long as you like upstairs, and I want
nothing. Take care of the room with the blue paper on the
handle. It is haunted worse than the rest."
The exertion of speaking seemed to distress her. She
returned to her chair, and cowered down in it as before.
V^^yy/^
' ]^r DigTtfzetfby'
1 6 5/. James's Magazine,
CHAPTER III.
STRANGE EVENTS.
Leaving the unfortunate creature for a few moments, I made
my way to the side-door by which I had entered, but found
that it was closed and locked. I was quite unable to account
for this, but said jestingly, to myself: "In a haunted house
doors have a right to lock themselves, if they please ; so I
will try the street-door." Partly out of curiosity, and partly
because I thought a minute or two could not make a great
difference to the poor creature, I thought it as well to have
a peep at the other rooms of the house. It just occurred
to me that there might be some one else staying upstairs,
and then the woman could have immediate assistance from
a person of her own sex. Accordingly I tried the front or
hall door, and finding I could open that from within easily
enough, I ascended the staircase and looked about me.
• The house was not built in a modern style. The staircase
was very twisty, and^the passages long and rambling. Then
there was an unmistakable air of age about the place. The
paper on the wall, the oak panelling of the lobby, the cornice
of the ceilings, all spoke of the workmanship of bygone days.
It was evident, too, that the labour expended on the building
had been of an unusual order of merit, and the balustrade,
of fine old mahogany, seemed to belong to a time farther
back than that of the oak panels. One or two pictures hung
on the second landing, but they were so faded that I could
not form any idea of their subjects. At the top of the first
flight, I looked up and saw that the house was rather a high
one, there being at least three flights above that at the top
of which I stood, and I thought it as well to explore gradually
from the bottom upwards. To my right was a door with the
key in it. I turned it in the lock, and entered.
Nothing worthy of notice presented itself. The room was
entirely empty and the floor clean ; the shutters were shut,
but sufficient light entered through the chinks and the open
door to enable me to see all around. Somewhat disappointed,
I closed the door again, turned the key, and walked down the
passage to the next room. Round the handle of this lock was
a piece of blue ribbon, loosely tied ; but to all appearances it
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Promdhia. 1 7
«
had been there for some time, for there was a plentiful coating
of blackish dust upon it and the china handle. This must be
the dangerous room.
" I ought to wait until night to enter this room," I said to
myself, " for ghosts, if genuine ones, never appear by day ; but
I suppose there is as much chance of seeing a ghost by day as
by night if the truth were known. At any rate, here goes. I
can visit the room again at night if it looks promising/'
As I said these words I put my fingers to the key and tried
to turn it. The silence of the house oppressed me very much
as I paused and drew in my breath for the effort. The key
was stuck fast ; it had a great objection to turn. Finding my
fingers utterly unequal to the task, I felt for my pencil-case,
and, passing it through the round of the key, tried again, using
the pencil as a lever. There was a harsh, grating noise, which
sounded in my ears very like a squeal or cry of some small
animal ; the key turned, and, removing the pencil, I opened ^^».
the door— shall I tell the truth >— cautiously. A cold air swept x^^m
past me as I moved forward, but the place wa* in total dark^/^*"**
ness. I had some matches in my pocket, and I struck qa^f %S^
By the light it afforded I made my way to the window a^l ;^y /^
opened the shutters, not taking the trouble to look at anytlnhg ~ *
until the full light of day streamed into the room. It was
a very large chamber. The shutters were not at all difficult
to remove, and in another moment everything became illu-
minated with the peculiar strong light which always seems
to enter a long-closed and dark room when the day u first
admitted
Looking around me, my gaze first fell upon what I took for
a corpse, but on close inspection I found to be only a wax
model. It was a beautiful and perfect imitation of the human
form, however, and evidenced the workmanship of a true artist.
The form and face were those of a woman, and a very beau-
tiful one. The model was completely naked, and lay on a sort
of tressel table. I approached to examine it carefully ; for,
to say the least, it was curious to find it there, and, for all I
knew at the first moment, it might be real. I soon tested the
substance. Whoever the artist was, he had not made a bad
imitation of a human body. The person from whom he had
taken his cast was evidently a very young and beautiful
woman, fair and pure of skin. The veins were laid on in the
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1 8 5"/. James's Magazine.
most wonderful manner, and it, was the perfection of their
execution which had deceived or rather made me doubtful as
to the reality of the substance. Her figure was about middle
size, and the lower limbs were full and well-proportioned.
The feet were especially small and delicate, and the toe-nails
as natural as if they were real. The thighs had received no
less attention from the artist than the rest of the body, and
the swell of the virgin hips and fall of ths waist had been made
quite a study, and a successful one. . Above rose the breasts,
perfect and beautiful, moulded full and shapely like two marble
towers, and the nipples were delicately tinted with a dead flesh
tint, while every fold and crease in their soft structure was
imitated with a marvellous precision. Over and round the
breasts the blue veins spread and wound in and out, and shone
from the softness of the flesh with the most perfect natural
appearance ; and thence glancing at the fair and rounded neck
and flie face, it was astonishing to find how wonderful the
skill of the modelist must have been. The features were per-
fectly regular, the nose rather prominent, the chin deeply
dimpled and fully rounded into childlike grace and softness.
The lips almost smiled as they closed together, and the fancy
could half imagine the warm breath of life flowing gently from
the rosy portals of some sweet-bosomed young woman. The
cheeks had a healthy glow about them, and the forehead was
fair and smooth, though in it, as in the lack of lustre of the
golden hair, one could perceive a shadow as of the presence of
death. There xwas that indescribable want of vital essence
under the brow and in the long coils of golden-hued hair, such
-as is to be seen on the freshly dead, — a want of something, but
a nameless quality. All we can tell is that we miss something
there just before the hand of the destroyer swept across the
features. We know that this change is due to what we call
death, but what that death is we know not. It was this sort
of look which spoilt the perfection of the model. But it only
applied to certain parts of the flesh, for the lower portions of
the body were perfect and lifelike.
I could not help passing my hand over the hair and the face
to satisfy myself that I was not being deceived by my senses.
There was no mistake about it : the ghost I had found was a
very beautiful though scarcely a commendable or serviceable
work of art. Where was the artist ? The man who could do
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Promethia. 1 9
this so perfectly could do many far more beautiful and really
valuable works. This might have a certain value to the curious
in such matters, but for the general public it would hardly be
worth getting possession of. Of course, American-like, to have
for my own anything extraordinary, out of the common, and
clever, was the first thing I thought of.
While thinking of this, and delighting my eyes by gazing
again and again on the perfection of the workmanship before
me, I failed to notice what was going on elsewhere in the
room. When I did so, I found myself face to face with a sight
more terrible than anything ever conceived by the wildest
visionary. I cannot describe it. I cannot even say whether
the Thing was human, animal, or merely substance. It had
form, but I can speak nothing positive of the form. I only
know that it was before me, and on the other side of the
waxen model. I shivered, and for the first time in my life
felt what is called fear. I never knew the feeling before.
Nothing horrible — and I had seen horrors enough — ever pro-
duced the least effect upon me. I had been over three-days-
old battle-fields ; I had walked through all sorts of hospitals ; I
had explored anatomical museums in all parts of the world,
and I had spent many hours in the dissecting-rooms of London
and continental hospitals and colleges. I had done a good
deal in the way of experimental vivisection myself, with a
view of getting excitement from the suffering of dumb creation,
but I had never felt the least repugnance for the sight of blood
or suffering, human or otherwise, fa single instances or massed
together. Some people had called me brutal. I think I was
only callous, and had sufficient self-respect not to pretend to
a feeling I did not possess. Do not imagine I was an inhuman
man. On the contrary, the poor and the suffering never
applied to me in vain ; but though I commiserated their suf-
ferings, I could not leathern affect me, as I did not feel with,
though I could for them. It was then a very exceptional
thing for me to be moved by terror of any kind, and I can
only ask you to believe that the object which rose or entered
before me was too terrible to be even described. It was there ;
I felt its presence, and I was obliged to face it, but only for a
moment. The Thing seemed about to move towards me, and
the terror and horror it inspired in me were so fearful that
my heart suddenly stopped short, and I fell senseless to the
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CHAPTER IV.
A PURSUIT.
It is impossible for me to say what occurred during the
middle of that eventful day. I remembered nothing until I was
aroused by a shriek, and suddenly opening my eyes I found
myself lying in the room with nothing to be seen anywhere
but the bare walls and a tressel, the one on which the mar-
vellous model had rested ; but the model and all vestige of it,
and the Thing which had so frightened me, were gone, and
there was nothing left to indicate what had become of either
the one or the other. I began to fancy that I had been the
subject of an illusion. I thought it probable that an attack
of indigestion had set in and made my eyes see for themselves
imaginary objects, while the same cause might well account for
my swoon. True, the impressions— and especially the recent
one, of a loud and terrible scream — were strong upon me, but
then I knew well that in certain states of the body the mind
is entirely free from all control of sense, and often fancies and
believes in the existence of the most absurd things. " There
is no accounting for the vagaries of the brain," I thought,
" and I had better get home and take some medicine before I
am worse."
Thinking thus, I rose to my feet and shook the dust off my
coat, not wishing to go into the streets in the state I then was,
when as I prepared to leave the room another and yet
more appalling cry resounded through the house. It pro-
ceeded from the lower regions, and I naturally concluded
it had some connection with the woman I had seen, as my
watch told me, some few hours ago. I made my way
below, and found the door of the room shut, and locked on
the inside. Feeling certain that my assistance within was
needed, I burst open the door, and found the woman prostrate
on the ground, and a strong odour of charcoal proceeding
from a large lighted pan in the centre of the chamber. At a
glance I understood the intention of the poor creature, and
I felt some pity for her. She had flung herself down close to
the coffin. I had no curiosity to see the man lying in the
latter, but I took her up and moved her into the purer air,
where she gradually recovered herself. She sat up on the
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Promethia. z I
edge of the stairs, and took my hand between hers, and shed
tears over it I let her weep in silence until I thought it
necessary to go and fetch some assistance. She could have
had little to eat, and her enfeebled frame might succomb to
the effects already communicated to it by the pernicious
charcoal.
" I must go and get you something," I said, gently dis-
engaging myself from her clinging clasp of my hand.
" Do not leave me. You have saved me, and yet I wish
you had not. Oh, do not go. I shall die if you do, and I do
not want to die alone."
"You shall not die/' I said. " I am going for a few minutes
only, to get you some food. You are ill, and need it. Tell
me something about yourself. Can I not take you to any
friends?"
I felt perfectly certain that though she was reduced to the
lowest verge of destitution, she was a lady born and bred.
It was not with an idle curiosity merely that I inquired about
her friends ; but it seemed to me highly probable that I was
there for the very purpose of saving this poor creature ; and
though I am no fatalist, I fancied there was something more
than chance in my being in time t6 prevent the consummation
of her crime. But she entreated me not to leave her, and I
puzzled my wits to think how it was possible to get assistance
without moving outside the house. Nobody would be likely
to come near a house with such an evil reputation ; and if
they did pass by, how should I be able to let them know that
a fellow-creature was within, in a forlorn condition, and need-
ing the necessaries of life? At length I persuaded her to
accompany me to the front door and look out there, and I
promised not to leave her for a moment. She seemed willing
to follow or come with me anywhere ; so we went upstairs,
and she took hold of the key of the hall door and opened it
We looked out together, but there was not a creature in
sight The morning was far advanced ; the weather was not
a bit more cheerful than when I started on this strange ex-
pedition, and the chance of any one coming into this cul de
sac appeared extremely remote unless it should be a trades-
man on his way to the asylum opposite. We went into the
dining-room, which was on the first floor, and stood looking
out of the window. I again tried to persuade her to leave the
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22 Si. James's Magazine.
house with me, or permit me to go and fetch some assistance,
if only from over the way. She shuddered at the mention of
th$ asylum ; she put up her hands deprecatingly, and seemed
to fear some danger from it. I soothed her and waited a
little longer, watching the whole of the road before the house,
and especially keeping an open eye on the asylum, for I
hoped assistance might come from there, and was fully deter-
mined to call for it if I saw the least sign of a Jiving being at
the windows, or in the little bit of garden, a glimpse of which
I caught over the aged gate. Time passed but slowly, and I
was thinking of breaking my word to her, when she suddenly
looked up earnestly at the opposite house. I saw her gaze
fix itself intently on the window. Her eyes seemed nearly
starting from their sockets ; her look grew a fixed one of
most intense agony. I followed it, but could only discern
the outline of a woman's form through the half-drawn blinds.
Presently she uttered a piercing shriek, and starting from my
side rushed across the room and the hall, and darted down
the steps before I could stop her or find sense enough to do
more than follow mechanically.
She firstjof all seemed to make for the exit from the square,
but apparently changed her mind. Her feet, all shoeless,
turned in the other direction ; and ere I could stop her, or
catch her up, she was at the gate of the asylum and pushing
against it.
" I will face her once more/' she exclaimed ; " I will see her
again and know the truth."
These were the utterances, broken and incoherent, which
fell on my ear ; but their meaning did not reach my sense.
I was only anxious to restrain her from violence to herself or
others, and followed with that object. Everything else was
forgotten in the intense suspense of the moment. I crossed
the road, and was about to take her by the arm and drag her
back from the gate when she succeeded in effecting her pur-
pose, and pushed the gate in. It flew back on its rusted
hinges with a groaning noise, and she was all but precipitated
to the ground by the violence of the effort to which it had
yielded. Recovering herself, she went forward, closely followed
by me. The front door did not seem to please her, for she
passed the steps which led up to it and forced her way through
the tangled shrubs of the garden to the rear of the building.
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Promethia. 23
I closely pursued her. Presently she faced round at a door
in the angle of the wall, which apparently led into some of
the back offices, and rushed at it like a tigress, as if deter-
mined to force it in by the mere weight and impetus of her
body. I followed hastily, bent, on seizing her before she
could do herself a mischief; but as I stepped forward, and
for the purpose of intercepting her, diverged a little to
the right, something gave way beneath my feet, and I was
precipitated down a hole or trap for a considerable distance.
I recollect striking something in my fall, but immediately
afterwards I lost all consciousness.
( To be continued, )
Digitized by VjOOQlC
The Czar Nicholas' Letters on
the Crimean War,
By JOHN AUGUSTUS O'SHEA.
[ OW that another fierce war in the East is apparently-
inevitable, men's minds go back to the war some
score years ago, in which British soldiers measured
arms with the Russians. Thomas Carlyle con-
siders that to have been "a mad war, and a war of the
most hideous and tragic stupidity, mismanagement, and
disaster." The outspoken — sometimes tOD outspoken — critic
of events is right, but in a wider sense than probably he
means. In both camps there were blunders of a gross
kind. An officer whose military judgment has since received
national recognition, Sir Garnet Wolseley, has told us in
words unmistakable of the pitiful appearance the British
army presented in the Crimea. That is now notorious and
admitted ; but th^re are other things which are not notorious,
and it is well for the admirers of the Muscovites to know them.
That it was not all smooth with the enemy is attested by no
less a witness than the high and mighty Autocrat of All the
Russias, the Czar Nicholas himself, in letters written deproprid
vtanu to the Princes Mentchikof and Gortchakof, at the time
the bloody drama was in action. These letters are new to
English readers — have never been translated in full, that I
am aware ; and now that once more the Eastern problem —
unsolvable but by the sword — obtrudes itself, they acquire a
fresh and most vital interest. This Czar Nicholas, who was
the bugbear of our boyhood, who was preached at in pulpit
and railed at on platform, caricatured and cursed in prose
and verse and picture, had in him after all some qualities
that were very human. He brooked no contradiction, he was
imperious as well as imperial; but it is hard for a human
being who is taught to believe himself the bearer of a divine
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
The Czar Nicholas' Letters on the Crimean War. 25
mission to be otherwise. But if he tyrannized over subjects,
it was only because he believed it to be for their good to
chastise them. Firm in the natural conceit of his own ineffable
and unquestionable grandeur, he gave his people now the
rod, now the kind word, now the quick command, and now
the fondling touch that a master gives to his dog— just
the affection of patronage, and no more. And his people,
who "possess the talent of obedience/' licked his hands —
which must mightily please the philosopher of Cheyne Row.
But to the letters I propose to introduce to EngHshmen of
the practical rather than the transcendental temperament.
They tell a story as to Russian fitness in the Crimean war
which singularly bears out the French Marshal's saying — not
altogether inapplicable to his own countrymen — that "there
is much display in all Russian affairs." The strong, stern
ruler, who had faith in himself and in his legions— the stately,
handsome giant, with the cruel eye and iron hand — this
surely a figure to captivate the worshipper of brute force ! —
watched the contest in the bleak Chersonese with an anxiety
that had in it the germ of fever ; and in his communications
with his lieutenants, the changing emotions of his soul are
kaleidoscoped, the misgivings, th^ hopes, the anguishes.
Those letters are an Iliad in little. There is in them much
that is "tragic," and a depth of unsuspected tenderness, a
richness of nature, and a delicacy of feeling for which autocrats
seldom get credit and more seldom deserve credit. They
cannot be overlooked by the historian, projecting as they do
a powerful light on the inner wire-pullings of that conflict in
the Crimea and on the little-understood character of the
Czar.
Let the reader carry himself back to the eventful autumn
of 1854. The armies of the Allies on the one side, of Holy
Russia on the other, are drawn up in battle-array. Both are
full of confidence, and both claim to go to battle in the spell
names of religion, an J civilization, and country, and humanity
purest, and all that. The first shock wakes Europe from the
banks of the Alma on the 20th of September. In less than
three hours the onset of the Allies is successful, and the
Russians are in full retreat. St. Arnaud pitches his tent on
the very spot where Mentchikof was encamped in the morning ;
the Russian prince has had to go away in such a hurry that
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
26 Si. James's Magazine.
he leaves his pocket-book and correspondence behind him.
It is a stunning, because so unexpected, discomfiture for the
Russians, and one will expect that it is a sore blow to their
imperial master. So it is, of a verity. He is at Gatchinp,
one of his palaces near St. Petersburg, where he hungrily
awaits tidings of glorious victory, when the tale of defeat
arrives. The blow is indeed sore ; but he bears it with right
royal fortitude, and sends written counsel to Mentchikof to
be of good cheer. This first letter of the series is dated
within four days of the passage of the Alma — that is to say,
September 12th of the Russian calendar, 24th of ours ; and if
you will read it through, and also those which succeed it, by
the light of what afterwards passed, you will learn a lesson.
Thus it runs : —
GATCHINO, 12M/24/A September, 1854.
The will of God be accomplished ; you and your subordinates have done
your duty. The repulse is cruel, but the losses are much more so. Let
us not despair of the supreme goodness ; we must hope for better days.
My confidence in you and the army is not in the least diminished. Our
turn will come, perhaps. What I consider a happy omen is the well-
combined flank movement which succeeded in drawing you out of the
•critical position in which you were, and placing you where, I confess, I
expected to see you. The communications with the fortifications and the
roads for the transport of provisions are thus set free. And what I regard
as much more important is that you can, in your turn, intimidate the
enemy, finding yourself as you do on his skirts.
I fear much for Sevastopol : is the garrison strong enough against such
audacious and enterprising adversaries ? How long is the defence from
the north side likely to last? Those are painful questions, the solution
of which I ardently wish may be reassuring.
I beg of you, write to me oftener ; my position is most cruel and
difficult. I must have frequent news, so that I may know what to do, and
be able to prepare myself for all contingencies.
May the Lord bless you as well as the army !
Tell the latter that I have faith in it now as in the past, and that I am
firmly convinced that soon it will prove once more that my confidence is
justified.
Give my greeting to Kornilof and our brave sailors. Their position
causes me much anxiety, but God is merciful, and we must not despair !
Does there still exist some other means of communicating with
Sevastopol ?
I embrace you !
Same date.
My dear Mentchikof,— I have just received this instant your second
report of the 6th, and you can easily picture to yourself with what
feverish impatience I am expecting the continuation. My hope in God
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The Czjr Nicholas* Letters on the Crimean War. 27
is unshaken, as well as my confidence in you and my faithful troops by
land and sea. I believe and I hope that all will do their duty, and I
submit with calm to what it may please the divine wisdom to decide.
I am uneasy on account of this new descent which is expected at
Theodosia.
If God has decided that Sevastopol will not be able to resist, I hope at
least that you will not yield our fleet without striking a blow, that you will
rather destroy it yourself. Join the effective of the crews to your army,
and strive to keep your ground in the south, or cut yourself a passage
towards SimpbeYopol ! ... May the Lord strengthen and preserve you,
as well as the brave men who serve under your orders ! My greeting to
all our people ! My paternal benediction for future exploits ! I am con-
fident that the zeal will be universal.
To Prince Gortchakof.
20th September lind October.
Dear Gortchakof, — Once more you have known how to anticipate my
wishes in deciding to direct the tenth and eleventh divisions towards
Odessa. It seems to me you could not have acted better. I only hope
you have given orders to the twelfth division and to that of the lancers
of the reserve to hasten their march, so as to come to the aid of Ment-
chikof. This is indispensable, for time is precious. The only chance of
safety for Sevastopol is the hope that Mentchikof will receive prompt
reinforcements, and that he will be able to take the offensive. We must
thank God that Mentchikof has succeeded in operating this flank move-
ment in face of the enemy. After this unfortunate affair, after the
considerable losses both of chief and subaltern officers, the order with
which the movement was effected reflects the greatest honour on him
and the troops alike. Now, no matter what happens^ Mentchikof s corps
has a free passage, even if it should not succeed in saving Sevastopol.
I avow to you that I anticipated worse than that— a complete disaster.
The enemy has invaded our soil : the time has come for each one to
sacrifice himself to the service of his country. This is why I have
decided to send my two younger sons to the army. I desire that at the
commencement they should be attached to your person, in order that they
may accustom themselves to their new calling. It will depend on you to
dispatch them where there will be advantage for them, and encourage-
ment for the army. In confiding them to you, I give you the best proof
of my friendship, and of the esteem in which I hold you for the nobility
of your sentiments. Strive to instil the same into their minds also. May
they in time do their duty as you do yours.
God be with you ! I embrace you cordially.
To Prince Mentchikof.
26th September /StA October.
Two of your bulletins, dear Mentchikof, have reached me to-day : this
morning, that of the 16th of this month, dated from Tatar-Kioi ; the
other in the afternoon, dated the 18th, from the fortifications of the
north. Thanks to God that the danger which threatened Sevastopo
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28 5*/. James's Magazine.
from the north side has been removed ! The only question now is to
know if the actual state of things is not still more^dangerous for the town,
Recollecting the slender means of defence from the land side, and the
want of solidity of the hasty fortifications thrown up, I confess I am not
able to overcome serious apprehensions. All my hope is in the Divine
mercy, in the valour of the troops, and in the skill they will display in
profiting ably of the advantages which the ground offers. As far as I
know and can call to mind, the possibility of a stubborn defence exists ;
I am convinced nothing will be left undone to that end.
In saluting everybody on my part, I beg of you to tell each one not to let
himself be disheartened. God is our defender. No matter what arrives,
we shall not cease to have faith in Him, and we shall know how to submit
to His will.
I embrace you with all my heart.
2jtA Septembcrfoth October.
Very late yesterday evening, my dear Mentchikof, I received your
report of the 21st. God be blessed that everything goes on happily ! I
find your manner of seeing things very just ; but will you be able, with
the help of God, to hold out for long ? That is the entire question. I
wish I could be less uneasy, but, alas ! I fear that in spite of our efforts,
in spite of the courage of the troops, the strength of the attack will get the
the upper hand of that of the defence. Would to God that I deceive
myself ! . . . .
I thank all and each for the zeal displayed.
Tell our brave sailors that I count on them by land as by sea. Let
nobody be discouraged. Above all, let us remember that we are Russians,
that we defend our country and our religion, and let us resign ourselves
to the decrees of Providence.
May the Lord keep you under His holy and powerful protection ! My
prayers are for you and our just cause. All my soul and my thoughts are
with you !
My greeting to Gortchakof : I embrace Kornilof.
What about our wounded ? Are they well taken care of? Where and
how have they been sheltered from the bombs ?
Extract from a Letter to Prince Gortchakof.
27M September j<)th October.
To-morrow I give my benediction to my younger sons before they set
out on their journey. I presume they will present themselves to you
between the 3rd and 5th of October. Be their guide ; make valiant and
loyal soldiers of them. I answer for their good will. Do not spoil them,
and always tell them the truth.
Extract from a Letter to Prince Mentchikof.
30/i September 1 1 2th October.
Yesterday evening, dear Mentchikof, I received your report of the
24th of September. You are so miserly with your details that I am
hardly able to form a judgment either of the situation or of the defence
of Sevastopol.
If God in His mercy permit the present state of things to last eight days
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
The Czar Nicholas* Letters en the Crimean War. 29
more — if Liprandi, with his excellent division, which can be depended
upon, succeed in rejoining you, you will have at your disposal at Sevastopol
nearly seventy-five thousand men, which, please God, you will employ
with profit, and save Sevastopol, the fleet, and the country.
I repeat, let nobody be discouraged ; let each one prove that we are
those same Russians who defended their country in 1812.
My greeting to all, with the expression of my hope. I embrace you.
yd/ 1 St A October.
The newspapers are filled with official accounts about the battle of
Alma, whilst I know nothing more of this encounter than I have gleaned
from the four lines you sent me, and the verbal recitals of Creig and
D'AlbedinskL
I demand a lengthened and truthful report It is shameful that I am
not, up to this moment, in a position to answer these bulletins with con-
viction and a perfect knowledge of affairs. Here nobody can understand
this silence, I less than anybody else. The whole thing is incomprehen-
sible to me, and oppresses me. It is high time that this should end.
Neither do I know in what state Kvitnizki finds himself, and all our
other wounded. I want a precise report on everything— the number of
those dead from wounds, of those on the way to recovery, and how many
there are entirely restored to health.
I am much pleased that the Tartars of the Guard have had the chance
of distinguishing themselves. You have done well to reward them for it.
Keep the courage of the troops alive, and I am certain soon to have good
news.
To Prince Gortchakof.
6////18M October.
Your letter of the 30th of September, my dearest Gortchakof, reached
me yesterday evening, and this morning Mentchikof s son arrived with
news of the same date. Thanks to God, nothing grave has happened
up to this day with respect to Sevastopol, which makes me hope that the
Lancers and Dragoons of the twelfth division will not delay. Never-
theless, I share your opinion that one cannot answer for anything. I am
very much pleased 4hat the cholera is not spreading at Ismail ; on the
other hand, I regret exceedingly that the mortality is so great at Kischinef.
I am, moreover, persuaded you will take the necessary measures to arrest
the evil and to remedy it. Is the number considerable of those who quit
the other hospitals and re-enter the ranks ? How do you arrange for them
to rejoin their respective detachments? Would it not be well to incor-
porate those who come from a distance with the nearest reserved troops,
so as to avoid too long marches in such bad weather?
I press you in my arms. I beg of you to embrace my children for me.
To Prince Mentchikof.
7M and 8M/19M and 20th October.
Your son, my dear Mentchikof, arrived early yesterday morning, and
has transmitted to me your verbal commissions. I thank God, nothing
new has happened up to the 30th, and that the reserves continue their
march towards you without any obstacle. The communications once free
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30 Si. Jameses Magazine.
the supply of provisions is guaranteed, also the transport of the trains of
artillery, and of the materials necessary for defence, if it become inevitable.
To judge from your son's words, it seems to me that our ideas agree with
respect to future projects. In attacking the enemy in proportion as we
shall fortify ourselves in the places most favourable for this purpose, we
shall avoid much of the danger to which we should, be exposed were our
attack more audacious. And then, by this means, the troops unfamiliar
with the smell of powder will get used to fire ; it will give them a taste
for arms. Take good care, however, not to fatigue them too much, and to
keep them warm and nourish them as well as possible. . . . Is it true that
the enemy's trenches are being excavated by means of a steam machine?*
Your son has likewise spoken to me of a new projectile launched
against the town from the side of the sea. Have one or two of them sent
on, in order to have them well examined.
I have consented to your project of transferring the Tartars from the
coast ; you can put it in execution when you judge it indispensable, but
take care that this measure may not have vexatious consequences for the
innocent — that is to say, the women and children — and that above all it
gives no hold for any abuse.
Write to me if many of the wounded are recovered, and what is the total
number.
Send me one of those English guns of new pattern introduced lately
into their army.t
\oth\22nd October.
I still and always thank Divine Providence that nothing bad has
occurred up to the 4th inst. From the advices from Gortchakof, you
ought to know that the two last divisions of the fourth corps advance
towards you without delay. Thus, dear Mentchikof, all has been done as
you see — I dare even add that more, has been done than could be hoped,
for the purpose of paralyzing the designs of the enemy. All that remains
now to ask of God, is that the last reinforcement may reach its destina-
tion in time for the salvation of Sevastopol.
I find it passing strange that, having written to you more than once on
the subject, and having: given you distinct orders, I have not received,
after tedious waiting, any detailed account of the battle which took place
near the Alma. You put me in the most disagreeable position before
Russia, for the people know my sincerity ; they are certain I will not hide
the truth, no matter how painful. At the present moment no one under-
stands this silence, — the more so because the foreign newspapers are full
of the most minute details of what has passed among the enemy and even
in part amongst us. And we are silent ! Are we not prepared to answer
all this ? Probably it is not suspected that even I know nothing except by
word of mouth. Confess, dear Mentchikof, that it is not proper to place
me in such a false position. This is the last time that I entreat and com-
mand you to write to me everything and in^detail. It is I alone, and no
* This rumour must have had its origin in smoke. The Allies had a railway —
the first time steam was used in land warfare — from Balaklava to the camp,
t The Minie* rifle.
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The Czar Nicholas Letters on the Crimean War. 31
other, who ought to decide what it is necessary to conceal, and what to
make known.
I also repeat my demand with reference to the wounded ; what is the
number of the dead, of the convalescent, and of those who have resumed
service?
Send the registers of the officers killed or wounded. They are pre-
paring fur clothes for your soldiers. Nourish them to satiety; if necessary,
give them double rations of wine. Raise their courage by telling them
that I am satisfied with them, and that I depend on them.
I embrace you from the depths of my soul.
After the news of the first Bombardment of Sevastopol.
lit A 1 23rd October,
This moment, dear Mentchikof, I receive your two bulletins of the
5th and 6th. Glory to God! glory to the heroes, defenders of
Sevastopol ! The first attempt has been repulsed with success. I thank
all and each one separately for having justified thus my confidence in
them. Was it I who could not know what those brave men were
capable of? By land and by sea they are rivalling each other to see
which can better accomplish their duty. Thus it was always — thus jf'
shall ever be ! Communicate to them the expression of my pater^jjl '
gratitude — yes, paternal, for I love them as my own children. . \ * '
The glorious end* of our dear and worthy Kornilof has profoundly
afflicted me. Peace to his ashes ! Bury him near our illustrious Lasaref.
If we live to a tranquil epoch, we will erect a monument on the place wfcer^1"
he fell, and the bastion will bear his name. ~"K- «*
What I cannot understand is how the battery (No. 10) could have
rested intact. I suppose he who commanded it merits the Cross of
Saint George of the fourth class.
When you have leisure summon a council and decide to whom it is
right and fitting to distribute recompenses. Give to the men of the above-
mentioned battery three roubles each, and to all who took part in the
combat two roubles. Besides the crosses which you may distribute, add
on my part five roubles for each battery.
To Prince Gortchakof.
14M/26M October.
Thanks, my dear Gortchakof, for your letter of the 7th of October.
I rejoice from the bottom of my heart that our thoughts often agree to
such a nicety, that one would say we had consulted each other beforehand.
I am perfectly of your opinion with respect to the measures to be taken
in the Crimea under present circumstances.
This morning Mentchikof sent me reports of the 8th and 9th in-
stants. The bombardment continues, but without causing considerable
damage to us. There has been no new attack from the water-side.
Mentchikof expects an assault at any moment. He has reinforced the
garrison with thirty-eight thousand men, not including the cavalry. The
enemy will probably concentrate his efforts on the weakest side. Ment-
chikof believes he ought to keep on the defensive before taking the
offensive, which cannot be previous to the arrival of the tenth and
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32 SL James's Magazine.
eleventh divisions. I am strongly apprehensive that they will be late-
It is improbable that the situation can last more than from twenty-three
to twenty-five days. This lapse of time will pass before the arrival of the
last reinforcement, and what anguish this waiting ! God alone can save
Sevastopol from the extreme danger that menaces it. I suppose honour
requires you to send my recruits (I allude to the Grand Dukes Nicolas
and Michel) in the Crimea to Mentchikof, in order to remain there until
the danger is passed, or rather until the defeat of the enemy. Afterwards
they can return to me. If danger exists, it is not for my children to avoid
it ; they ought to serve as an example to the others. Therefore, with the
aid of God, let them set out on their route. Adieu ! I embrace you with
all my soul ; may the Lord protect you !
To Prince Mentchikof.
14/y* /26M October.
Early this morning, my excellent Mentchikof, I received your report of
the 8th. I approve in every point your manner of judging our actual
position. It is necessary to venture nothing, but to act with decision and
prudence. I trust in you, in the zeal and courage of the generals, of the
admirals, of soldiers and sailors, with the intimate conviction that Russian
heroes can surmount all difficulties, and that they will scrupulously
accomplish their duty. After that, it rests with the Lord to decide for
us what is or is not to happen. We shall resign ourselves to His will
without murmuring. I do not hide it, I fear much that we may not be
able, with our feeble means and hastily constructed fortifications, to
repulse a cleverly directed assault, or to defend ourselves against con-
siderable forces.
If it is decided on High that it is impossible to save Sevastopol, at least
it is necessary to collect the remains of the garrison without panic, to
retreat with order towards the reserve, and, having occupied some advan-
tageous position, to strive, not to leave the enemy time to fortify himself
in the town.
I have authorised my sons Nicolas and Michel to return to you. May
their presence amongst you be a token of my confidence. May my chil-
dren learn to share your perils, and serve as example and encouragement
to my brave ones by land and sea, to whom I confide them.
To-day, we have assisted at a dead mass for the repose of the soul of
Kornilof, and we have sincerely wept.
16M/28M October.
Your bulletin of the 4th, my dear Mentchikof, reached me this even-
ing. The heroic defence which lasts so long, and the individual acts
of bravery of which I learn, transport me. It will be so much the more
to be regretted, if, after the prodigious efforts of our troops, we abandon
Sevastopol to occupy the northern part. When the tenth and eleventh
divisions shall have rejoined you, I hope you will find means to give the
enemy a good lesson, to sustain the reputation and honour of our army.
I thank each and all for their heroic courage and their faithful service,
and tell them how much I regret not to be able to be in their midst. My
children are there at least !
I press you to my heart.
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The Czar Nicholas* Letters on the Crimean War. 33
After the news of the Occupation of Tchorooun.
19////3U/ October.
Thanks to God, thanks to you, and to the companions of your exploits
for the excellent commencement of our offensive operations ! I am grate-
ful to you, my dear Mentchikof, for having so well interpreted my inten-
tions when expressing my thanks to our brave troops : they were well
deserved. I feel no less pleasure in the bravery of our incomparable
seamen, the intrepid defenders of Sevastopol I rejoice to find that my
sailors in the Black Sea still remain the same as I remember them in
1828. I have seen with my own eyes that nothing is impossible to them.
Tell them that their old acquaintance, who has so often inspected them,
is proud of them, that he thanks them as a father does his dear children !
Let these words be communicated to them in the order of the day. My
aide-de-camp, Prince Galitzine, is instructed to visit each of the crews
with a greeting from me, and the expression of my gratitude. I anticipate
that my sons will arrive in time to take part in what is being prepared.
I entrust them to your care. I am pleased to think that they will show
themselves worthy of the rank which they occupy. I entrust them also
to the troops in token of my attachment May their presence with you
compensate for my absence. May our merciful Lord preserve you ! I
press you to my heart. My cordial greeting to all.
I embrace Liprandi for his victorious dtbut.
Particularly thank from me the regiment of lancers of the reserve,
recently formed from divers elements for having so heroically renewed
its service.
The children will probably follow in the footsteps of their fathers.
After Inkermann.
31// October \\2th November.
You must not let yourself be depressed, my dear Mentchikof, whilst you
are at the head of the heroes of Sevastopol, having under your orders a
body of eighty thousand choice troops, who have just proved once mor:
what they are capable of when they are led as they ought to be, and where
they ought to be. With such gallant men it would be disgraceful to think
of defeat
Again tell them that I thank them— that seeing their true Russian
courage I am satisfied with them.
If hitherto we have not had the success which we had a right to expect,
God is still full of mercy, and perhaps the success will yet come.
As to abandoning Sevastopol, it would be disgraceful to think of it, so
long as there are inside its walls and outside eighty thousand soldiers full
of energy : it would be to forget our duty, and to lose all feeling of honour
and patriotism. That is why I cannot for a moment think of such a thing.
Let us die with glory, but not capitulate nor beat a retreat !
I write no more, for I know not what there is to write about, i am
happy that God has preserved my sons safe and sound ; that they have
shown themselves equal to their position and its exigencies. I end as I
began : Let no one be discouraged— you, as commander, least of all, for
all eyes are turned towards you, and your example ought to animate every
VOL. I. Digitized by£i<
34 £/. James's Magazine.
individual to the fulfilment of his duty to the last extremity. May God
protect you ! I embrace you affectionately.
2iid\\^h November.
In the name of God, take care of the wounded ; watch over them as much
as possible. Encourage the troops ; speak to them in my name ; thank
them ! Let them know that their services are appreciated, and that their
exploits reach me. Reward as soon as possible those who distinguish
themselves
7////19/A November.
Your report of the 31st of October reached me this evening, my dear
Mentchikof. God be praised that nothing very bad has happened as yet I
The animated spirit of the army rejoices me very much ; besides, I had
no right to doubt it. It would be desirable that the troops should dis-
tinguish themselves, show their valour and their zeal : they can do it if
they are skilfully directed. Thanks to God, the wounded are recovering.
I will not cease to beg of you to do all you can to alleviate their sufferings.
It is with a lively sentiment of pleasure I read your report, so honourable
to my children ; as a father, I am happy not to have been deceived in
them. In my last letter I had already granted you the permission to
decorate them, if you thought it just to do so. It would be wrong, too, to
forget all those who are meritorious. I suppose Prince Gortchakof will
find no obstacle in sending to you what forces he can spare from Nicolatef.
Note well that, those forces arrived, there will be no more to send. It
would be vexatious to exhaust this last reserve, for it is the only one avail-
able to complete the other corps, for God alone knows what awaits us.
It is very much to be regretted that your excellent cavalry had no chance
of distinguishing itself.
14M/26M and lyhfath November.
Your report of the 6th of November has been received this morning,
dearest Mentchikof. God be praised ! It is more consoling than the
preceding ones. The tempest of the 2nd of this month was a provi-
dential help, whose consequences have been much more decisive for the
-«nemy than we supposed. It would be curious to know what passed
between Balaklava and Chersonese ; it is to be supposed that the tempest
raged there with no less violence, and caused serious damage. At least,
<our men have been able to take breathing-time and rest themselves from
this bombardment, which has lasted a month without truce or intermission.
I beseech you, do not forget the rewards ; you must recompense accord-
ing to merit.
In answer to a Bulletin of Prince Mentchikof of the
15TH of same Month.
2yd November.'
I see with pleasure that your hope of saving Sevastopol does not vanish,
that the spirit of heroism and audacity which animates our soldiers, as
in past times, seems to increase with the intensity of the danger. It would
be a crime to doubt it, and yet, in reading those recitals my heart throbs
very fast. How I would wish to fly to you to share your fortune, instead
&1 tormenting myself here with incessant fears. Thanks for not having
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The Czar Nicholas' Letters on the Crimean War. 35
left without recompense the principal authors of the exploits of the
24th, our brave soldiers. I cannot help weeping when I read what my
children write to me, and what Sturler writes to me of the sailors. Those
are heroes ! They must be rewarded often and liberally.
And now may the will of God be accomplished ! Let us wait, and let
us submit ourselves humbly to His decrees ! May He preserve you all !
I embrace you.
27M November.
I address my thanks to you, dear Mentchikof, for your eagerness in
tranquillising me. The want of powder inspired me with much anxiety.
It would seem that now this serious difficulty is got over. According to
what you tell me, we shall be able to yield in nothing to the enemy's fire,
if they recommence with the same vigour, which I expect.
To judge by the news received from you and that which comes to me
from different sources, I am more and more persuaded that this is the
plan of our adversaries : to be patient until their forces are doubled
by the regular arrival of the drafts on their way to them, to drag along
until all are assembled, and then to recommence the bombardment with
redoubled violence, and, what would not be improbable, to renew the
assault on three sides at once.
It is important to take care of the troops as much as possible ; that is
to say, to nourish them to repletion, not to fatigue them uselessly, to give
them the best shelter available, besides furred garments. As to filling up
the gaps in their ranks, it shall be looked after.
At present I must change my theme, and speak to you on a painful
subject The health of my wife is so bad that she cannot leave her bed ;
her weakness is extreme. Since the departure of her sons she has grown
worse. It would be a consolation for her to see them. I fancy that this
could be arranged in case hostilities were not renewed, and there is
nothing decisive in view. But these obstacles removed^ I see others
arise: would not their return produce a bad effect on the troops and
weaken their courage ? In short, let them come back only in case you
find nothing to say against it
29M November.
I think right to declare to the troops who compose the garrison of
Sevastopol for the last two months — soldiers and sailors alike — that in
recognition of their zeal, their courage, and their privations, I order each
month to count as a year's service, with all due privileges and prerogatives.
They merit it fully ; you will declare it to them on the anniversary of
the Sovereign's/?/* (6th December). You distribute rewards too parsi-
moniously. I beg of you, grant me the pleasure of seeing those who are
worthy of it well recompensed. The arms taken from the enemy can be
divided among the crews of the fleet Write to me how many wounded
have returned to the ranks, how many there are dead, and how many
on the road to recovery.
5////17M December.
Dear Mentchikof, the evening before yesterday I received your report
of the 29th of November. It is with satisfaction I confirm your pre-
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36 S/. James's Magazine.
sentation of rewards in every particular. Valour ought to be recom-
pensed. I beg of you to signalise those who distinguish themselves most
frequently. Now or never is the occasion to grant decorations and pro-
motions, especially to such of the young officers as are promising.
Are our troops well sheltered ? Are they warm enough ? Are they
well fed ? Has the cavalry sufficient forage ? What about the sick and
wounded ?
St. Petersburg, 29M December.
Write to me if the victualling of the army is sufficient, and for about
how long it will last ? Why has the effective force of the dragoons com-
menced to grow so perceptibly weak ?
5M/17M January, 1855.
I hope the troops are not suffering much from the bad weather, for we
do not dread the cold, provided they can be well nourished, an object
for which it is necessary to spare neither care nor expense. You can
increase the ration of brandy. It would be a good notion to introduce
sinten* as a drink, if the ingredients to compose it can be found.
How are the sick and wounded ? are there a great many cured ? Is it
true that typhus fever has re-appeared? I fear the pest amongst the
enemy. By the time this letter reaches you my sons will have rejoined
you. Embrace them for me. I salute Sacken and the others. May God
have you in His keeping ! I press you to my heart.
20M Januaryjist February.
I rejoice that the gaps in the ranks are filled by the arrival of the
reserve. I also thank the Lord that more than seven hundred men are
spired of their wounds and restored to you. Those heroes are worth
I fold !
26M Januaryftth February.
I think, with you, that the waggons which return empty should be
used for the purpose of bearing the sick, well-clothed and well-sheltered,
to the more distant hospitals, in order to make room in those nearer for
/the wounded in case of battle.
I repeat that I do not expect peace.
It is indispensable to unite all our efforts to destroy the enemy in the
Crimea. All the reinforcements that could be sent to you are already on
the spot or on the march. When they are together you will be able to
dispose of a sufficient number of soldiers to resist the enemy. The valour
of the troops and their officers is a guarantee to me of this. It would be
unjust to have the shadow of a doubt in this respect, and the idea would
never occur to me. The entire past proves that my expectation has not
been in vain. May God do the rest !
I receive this moment, by telegraph from Kief, your bulletin of the
20th of January. Thank God that the mine was discovered. Thus
my presentiment did not deceive me. I hope that our miners will make
a name for themselves. I suppose it would be time to stop the work of
the sapping by a camouflet It is to be presumed that they advance from
the enem/s side by a double gallery. It is good practice for our brave
* A favourite Russian beverage, made of honey and ginger.
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The Czar Nicliolas' Letters on the Crimean War. 37
miners. I like to think that my former comrades will show you what they
are capable of. Reward generously. I thank you for the last sortie,
accomplished with so much success. Continue to harass (he enemy from
time to time.
3U/ January\\2th February.
I continue to receive news about the enemy : to wit, that they are pre-
paring for assault ; yesterday it was announced that they had sent four
thousand cuirasses to wrap up the attacking columns. I give you this
frtelligence for what it is worth. It seems difficult to go to the assault
accoutred after such a fashion. Moreover, in spite of those famous
cuirasses our soldiers' bayonets will know how to find out the ribs of
their assailants. Hasten to distribute the rewards. Sustain the good
disposition and emulation of the ranks. Give me more frequent news
about everything that passes, for again I have been eight days in the
most complete ignorance.
4M/16M February.
My thanks to my valiant sappers and miners. Their ancient com-
rade takes a lively interest in their exploits. It is incredible that the
French have not redoubled their subterranean works. In spite of our
success, we must be still more on our guard. It was a providential aid
that permitted us to occupy this hole excavated by the explosion, for
under the continual fire of the besiegers we have few losses to deplore.
In truth, it is almost a miracle !
lOth/llnd February.
After a long wait, at length this afternoon my aide-de-camp, Prince
Obolenski, arrived. From my heart I regret to hear of your indisposi-
tion, my dear Mentchikof ; I hope that God will grant you a speedy and
entire cure. The good results obtained by our mining works are very
agreeable to me, but we must continue to act with prudence. I also
compliment you for having thought of securing the left side of bastion
No. 4.
In effect, it would appear that Eupatoria has sufficient means of de-
fence. I only fear that Khroulef,* with his habitual ardour, may launch
into some hazardous enterprise, of which the issue, while costing us
much, will profit us nothing. For I continue to suppose that the town
will not be able to resist the always increasing fire from the side of the
sea. It is certain the losses would be considerable and without profit.
It would be more sure to wait till Omer Pacha appears, and to attack
him then on the flank or rear. This movement could be accomplished
with much more facility, and above all with much more security. If this
were done skilfully, we might be able, with the aid of the artillery and
cavalry forces you have at your disposal, to annihilate him completely,
and that without too great sacrifices. The English are, it appears, in a
piteous state ; to attack them would be easier than the others. If the
French have occupied all the posts of the latter, their line must be very
* A Russian general who highly distinguished himself in the defence of S6vas-
t>poL
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38 5/. James's Magazine.
extended. Might there not be there some weak point where one could
succeed in making a gap ? That is all I have to say to you. I press you
in my arms. May God be with you !
These were the last lines from the pen of the Imperial
writer. Ten days afterwards, on the 2nd of March, 1855, the
Czar Nicholas died — died, it is not too much to say, of a
broken heart. The letters which go before are a great and
unequivocal tribute to his memory. Some there are who
execrate him, and may execrate those who dare to say a
word in his favour ; but reading these literal effusions of his
heart, who can deny that he had affection for family, for
country, and for his soldiers ? These are noble traits, and
these are to be found not seldom in men whose reputation,
amongst those who are not of their way of thinking, is infa-
mous. From the which the moral may be drawn that not
even the devil himself is so black as he is painted.
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Only a Music-M:
By FANNY AIKIN-KORTRIGHT,
AUTHOR OF "ANNE SHERWOOD," "HE THAT OVERCOMETH," ETC.
CHAPTER IX.
A POOR WOOER.
jOMEBODY wrote a book a year or two ago
entitled "We're all Low People here ! " (The work
deserved success if only for the ingenuity of the
title.) In remembering the foregoing pages of our
little chronicle, the story-teller is sorry that his poor puppets
are all " so handsome/' that a little monotony must neces-
sarily prevail in his description. This is the more to be
regretted as he is perforce obliged to bring one more hand-
some face on the canvas. I really am sorry that Henry
Temple is not picturesquely ugly, but in good truth in the
morning of life he was a model of beauty, and though he was
no flirt he was the cause of many a heartache, and, alas ! now
and then of a heart-break too. It was not his fault. Women
will love fair faces, and in default of them will love those they
imagine to be fair. Yet, however acceptable to young
maidens Henry Temple might be, the very charm he had for
them, the very grace he found unsought in their eyes, made
him peculiarly obnoxious to, and dreaded by, affectionate and
anxious parents.
Henry Temple and his mother had seen better days ;
perhaps they might be described as a decayed gentleman and
lady, yet preserving all external decencies possible, and not
suffering from actual want. They had lived some two or
three years in a small house, a very small house in Dinston,
which was scantily furnished and not much frequented, for
none but romantic young folks (and even among the young
folks some very prudent ones were found) cared to frequent a
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40 St. James's Magazine.
house where the only hospitality ever offered was rather poor
tea, slices of bread and butter, and a seed-cake. Besides,
there was that good-looking idle fellow loitering about with a
book in his hand ; dreaming when he ought to be busily em-
ployed at a profession — not at all a wholesome atmosphere
for the young, nor an entertaining one for the elders.
Mrs. Temple dressed in solemn black that had been
brighter a couple of years previously, and was always disfigured
by a hideous widow's cap ; she was a gentle and sorrowful
woman — the world said peevish and discontented-look-
ing. The world said wrong, as it sometimes will ; it is
certain that the poor lady was grave and silent, usually
reserving her speech till the evening lamp was lit, when she
would discourse with her son of such matters as he was
reading, or go back with him through the gloom of past
years, groping as it seemed to catch the shadows that were
fast escaping from her.
They had seen better days indeed, mother and son, but
they loved each other devotedly, so their present days could
«ot be called evil. Where love dwells, light must dwell also —
the lamp of their dwelling was inexhaustible.
Henry was twenty-two, and should have been at work years
before, instead of being " tied to his mother's apron-string."
This was said with some truth, but the sayers would not
stretch forth a little finger to help the poor widow even to
apprentice her son to a trade, had she willed to do so, and
had he been less of a bookworm.
Not far from the widow's " modest mansion " rose one
scarcely more pretentious in size, yet in reality showing more
of comfort and ease. This was inhabited by a family from
Cornwall called Tresinnan. Mr. Tresinnan was a manager
of a bank in the town, not a great bank, giving its manager
a noble income, but one on a small scale, with salaries for its
officers proportioned to the size of its own speculations. He
had a large family, several grown up, and more or less
employed. There were also some young motherless children
in the group, and there was a daughter who did more than a
mother's part, despite her girlish years, to the helpless little
ones. Ithama was not handsome, nor even pretty, with which
the world in general would recognise as beauty. She was
tail and well-formed though, — had chesnut hair, expression
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Only a Music-Master. 41
eyes, and her irregular features were lit by a light from
within that spoke of heart and intelligence in a more than
ordinary degree.
Ithama's dress was defective ; her acquaintances, and
especially her intimate friends, informed the world, and
then informed her, that it was "dowdy in the extreme,"
but she met the remark with a quiet smile, and said it was all
very true.
Only one person in all the population of Dinston was found
to look with any pleasure upon Ithama's face ; — that was
Henry Temple ; and certain it was that as he passed her
dwelling his step lingered and he looked wistfully towards
the low parlour window. If he saw her within, there was a
change of colour in his cheek ; sometimes he knocked timidly
at the door, and left a book for her, scrupulously waiting at
the door to see if she had any message for his mother.
Sometimes she had one ; those were the days when she had
just brushed her chesnut ringlets through, or had indulged in,
a spotless collar ; then she came to deliver the message her-
self.
Henry and Ithama had in certain bygone leisure hours
read Tennyson and Longfellow together. Ah, dangerous
reading ! I should like to be able to say how many imprudent
engagements — nay, how many imprudent matches, have arisen
from the unguarded use of the works of those two gentlemen.
I have known "Locksley Hall" to pcove as a match to a
train in the case of a poor consumptive young clerk ; and
" Stars of the Summer Night " has acted on some young folks
of my acquaintance more powerfully and less safely than a
galvanic battery. Ah, true poets I You write in pathos and
in sport, and with either, play on these poor human hearts as
strong wind upon harp-strings, waking them to life per-
chance only to be broken. Mr. Tresinnan had wisely stopped
the poetry, for having made an imprudent match himself, he
was resolved that none of his children should split on the
same rock. Ithama might have read " Romeo and Juliet/'
had she chosen, with the rubicund rector of the parish, who
was ready to lay his forty-five years and good living at her
feet ; but Mr. Tresinnan, with true paternal feeling and dis-
crimination, shrank from his portionless daughter's going
through a second course of Tennyson and Longfellow, with a
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42 St. James's Magazine.
youth near her own age, with that fair womanish face, and
neither income nor profession.
Of course, Ithama was too good a daughter to brave her
father about the books ; she yielded the poetry the moment
she was told, and took a fit of something else instead — a
something she had no name for, but kept in the lowest
depth of her heart sealed down, and only spread forth when
no curious eye could see into the hiding-place.
The young folks often met for a few minutes, never de-
signedly, but always by some happy accident. There had
never been the least mention of love between them, yet they
were conscious lovers. The beauty and glory of first love
lies in its faith, its cordial and entire faith in itself and in the
future. When the tired heart loves again, it may be, it pro-
bably is, with more intensity, with more self-abnegation ; but
it is without belief in itself or its destiny, therefore must the
heart's second love be ever sorrowful.
But Henry and Ithama were happy in their silent affection,
and firmly and bravely looked forward on the pathway of
life.
One evening Henry suddenly stood before Ithama. Her
curls were neatly arranged ; so was her spotless linen collar.
Ill-natured people would have said he was expected. I am
not ill-natured, so I will say no such thing. Ithama' was
lulling her baby brother to sleep in her arms ; Henry Temple
stood on the threshold admiring the pretty picture, ere he
was himself seen. Her back was nearly turned, but a portion
of her profile was seen as she bent over the little child.
u May I come in, Ithama ?"
" Yes, Mr. Temple ; only "
"Only what?"
" In a few minutes I have to be busy preparing tea for
papa, who will be home very soon. Do you want to see
him?"
Now, Ithama perfectly well knew that Henry had not the
least wish to see her father. Why should she have asked
that question? Why should she have touched the face of
the sleeping boy so closely with her own that she woke him
up ?
" Ithama, I must speak to you, but a few minutes won't do.
I have much to tell you."
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\
Onfy a Music-Master. 43
"But papa's tea?"
" Well, if it cannot be to-night, when can it be ?"
" Mr. Temple, I "
" Oh, I know what you would say, Ithama. If I were a
rich suitor "
" Henry, Henry, do you say this to me ?"
" Forgive me, Ithama. I am wrong, but the unfortunate
grow embittered and then unjust. You will be at church
to-morrow evening?"
"Yes."
" We may walk home together, may we not ? I suppose
we may do that, especially as there will be no moon, not even
the light of stars ? Shall it be so, Ithama ? "
" How can I say ? I suppose the Rector may watch our
footsteps."
" You don't fear him, do you ?"
"Fear him!" cried Ithama, her whole face bursting into
a sunshiny smile ; u there is but one human being whom I
fear."
" And that is your father ?"
" No-r-he is firm and decided, but ever kind. No, I don'}
fear my father. He acts as he supposes for his children's
good, but he is never their tyrant. God forbid that I should
fear my father/ '
" Well, whom then ?"
" Oh, nothing — nothing — nobody. I shall see you to-morrow
if I can."
" You can if you will, Ithama. I must see you I tell you,
I must," he repeated earnestly.
" Go now then, Henry."
" I am gone."
He bent down to kiss the sleeping child in Ithama's arms
with a good deal of tenderness, and she wondered how one
with so glorious a gift of beauty should care for her — for her
who had no beauty at all.
Yet Ithama looked very fair in her blushes that night. "
What could it be that he would tell her on the morrow?
Oh, could it be really, truly, that—? Ah! what golden
dreams had Ithama that night, and what a glorious sunrise
did the next morning bring to her !
44 St. James's Magazine.
CHAPTER X.
ithama's first love-letter.
1* HE congregation were wending their way from church, and
the sounds of the organ grew fainter and fainter.
It was not ill-played, but no one lingered to listen to the
strain as they did in H to catch every note of Luigi
Valerio.
In the porch of the church stood Henry Temple, ruminating.
I fear it was not on the text, which had been " Comfort ye,"
for he did not look at all comfortable or comforted ; in truth »
he was too strongly prejudiced against the rector to accept
edification at his hands ; he would not hear the voice of the
charmer, charm he never so wisely. It was not that Henry
Temple was a man destitute of religious feeling,— on the con-
trary ; but where his passions were aroused his will was iron,
and under the gentlest and most winning aspect he carried a
wonderful determination of character, that might lead him to
heroic martyrdom or a stern usurpation of heaven's attributes,
as it might be.
The twilight had darkened considerably ere Ithama left the
church and felt her hand drawn through Temple's arm as he
hurried her out of the crowd and into a path a little less fre-
quented than the ordinary road to her home.
"Oh, Mr. Temple, I am afraid this is wrong!"
" Be it so, Ithama. The first offence may be the last.
Perhaps you see me for the last time to-night."
"Henry!"
u 1 only said perhaps, Ithama. I have something to say to
you which, — indeed, you may yourself say to me, ' Depart for
ever!'"
" I could not do that."
" But supposing I told you that disgrace attached to my
name ? "
" How could it, unless by your own deeds ? — and that could
never happen, never ! You have done nothing shameful,
nothing wrong ! "
" Nothing, Ithama, nothing. I swear to you, nevertheless,
a cloud hangs over my destiny. Why has the world mocked
and derided me, as I know it has, for a worthless idler,
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Only a Music-Master. 45
dreaming and moping while others are acting and carving
out their way to fortune ? Ithama, my energies have been
crushed, too effectually crushed by early misfortune to leave
room for ambition, or even hope in my character. Mine has
been a motiveless existence till now ; now I have an incentive
to exertion, for I love you, Ithama — I love you as my own
soul ! And if when you have heard all "
" I would hear nothing that is painful to you to tell."
" Ah, but you must hear ! There is a mark of dishonour on
my name, yet honour is very dear to me. I will not deceive
you ; you shall know the truth. You are young and innocent,
dearest, — so innocent that the very name of sins common
among men are unknown to you. How shall I say it ? "
" Harry, Harry, you terrify me ! "
"Not willingly, my darling. Do you love my mother,
Ithama ?"
" As if she were my own. Ah, if she were not sweet and
lovable, don't you think, don't you know I should love her as
yours ? "
" Ah, that is one of my grievous sorrows, Ithama. I have
no right to the name of that noble woman's son, — she is not
my mother ! "
" Not your mother ! "
" No. She has reared me as her child, as she reared my
brother — a brother whom I lost, having loved him with un-
bounded affection. She lavished on me, on him, more than
a mother's love and tenderness, exhausted her own slender
means to educate and rear us as the sons of a gentleman
should be educated and reared, but we had no right to her
bounty, still less to her tenderness."
" Adopted sons ? " asked Ithama innocently.
" Children of sin and shame, Ithama. Our father had been
a man of family and fortune, but dissipated his means, no
matter how. In after-years my mother, or the woman whom I
call such, married him, — she having a little fortune, he nothing.
Her romantic generosity was unbounded. She was at first
ignorant of our existence ; when she learned it, as soon as the
first shock was over she took us to her heart and home."
"She was, she is, an angel!" said Ithama. "God bless
her!"
" God bless her ! " repeated Henry. " We lost my father
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46 5/. Jameses Magazine.
soon, my brother some years since. We have been all in all
to each other. Ithama, I have loved you well; I love you
better each sunset. Will you leave me, now you know all ? "
" Never ! " said Ithama.
" Remember, dearest, I have no right to the very name I
bear, as my own mother never bore a wife's name ; remember
that whoever knows my story will have, or will assume a
right, to point a scornful finger at me through life. Could
you bear this, darling ? "
" Your life shall be my life, your sorrows mine, your shame,
if shame there be, mine also. But your own, your true
mother, Henry, did you never see her ? "
" Never, dear one, but my brother did."
"And he "
" Ah, Ithama, don't let us speak of him, it is too bitter
a remembrance; and to think that he might have been
saved "
"Extremely kind in you to see my daughter home,
Mr. Temple. I was just going to the church to fetch her.
Good-night — " and Mr. Tresinnen, while speaking in the
blandest terms, shut the door gently in the young lover's face.
While he stood there for a few seconds, stunned as if by a
physical blow, he had the mortification to see the sleek
rector inside the parlour, seated near the supper-table, and
evidently considered ali^ady a member of the family.
Temple thought of the text "Comfort ye," and instead of
taking comfort, he ground his teeth together in chewing the
cud of bitter fancy. Finally, he rushed home and wrote to
Ithama an epistle which covered four sheets of paper, that is,
some sixteen pages, from which I will only make a brief
extract: "Tell me you are mine with your own dear hand.
I believe in you, dearest, as I believe in God's good angels,
but I want your promise in so tangible a form that I can
spread it before my eyes in every hour of sadness and
depression. I want it as a constant reminder and incentive
to exertion. Give me your promise to be my wife, and I
shall have courage to labour patiently till I can claim you as
mine. I will not tell you that I fear such a rival as our
spiritual (?) pastor, — I will not offend you so much, — but pray
keep his impertinent pretensions at a distance, as they de-
serve," etc., etc.
•:/jr
Only a Music-Master. 47
Now the poor rector deserved no vituperation at all ; he was
as good a soul as ever lived, just, upright, generous, pious, with
no fault in the world but the large " bay window * he always
carried about with him from necessity, not from choice— and
the colour of his face, which inclined to carnation more than
to lily white; — yet prejudice so blinded Ithama that she /
could not see one noble quality, behind the fat red mask of / '; *
flesh and blood; and prejudice, so blinded Temple that he \£*
not only denied the excellences of his rival, but attributed . >
to him a malignity of purpose in wooing Ithama, which the ^
good man would not have understood, much less expe- '»**'
rienced.
Ithama read Temple's letter three times in all, the night
she received it, read it so devoutly, that she could almost, if
not quite, have placed her hand in the dark upon any par-
ticular word in the epistle — her first love-letter. Who ever
forgets this, I wonder ? How many sober men and women
half-way on the longest journey of life could be found who
have not some green spot in the corner of their hearts
wherein lies a yellow, crumpled, shrivelled bit of paper, the
ink pale and faded, the words, it may be, senseless, yet they
take it now and then, and look at it and read it, smile at its
soft nonsense with a little wonder that it could ever have
cheated them, but after the smile passes, there comes a sigh,
and the shrivelled yellow paper is laid back in the heart's
sanctum, to be read again, perchance, when the white winter
of age has scattered snow on the hair, andthe^tceaibling
hand can scarce grasp the scroll. /^^^ft //>
1 & YOK*'
CHAPTER XI.
THE POWER OF MUSIC.
AUTUMN winds were sighing round the old Manor House
something else was sighing too, but within — groaning were
perhaps the fitter word — it was a maiden's heart.
Yes ! Horatia's heart was groaning, her very soul writhing
under a sense of shame and self-abasement. Pride fought
against love, love against pride : on the side of pride there
seemed a legion of devils armed ; on the side of love was a
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seraph's head that spoke no words unless through those won-
derful melodies that seemed its only proper language. Twice
a week came Valerio, twice a week was he received with the
same cold manner, the same averted or disdainful looks, the
same overbearingly haughty manner. Why did he come at
all? "Oh, for the money, of course," commented Horatia,
bitterly — as bitterly adding, " Spaniel, despicable cur ! "
Yet Horatia lived only for the hours that should bring
Valerio ; counted all those that should intervene between his
visits ; and when he departed, watched him from a curtained
window, straining her eyes till the last faint outline of his form
could be seen no more in the blue distance When she had
done this, she would rush to her room and pace up and down
with agitated steps, smiting her fair bosom, or clasping her
temples in her hands till her fingers left their impress on her
skin. " To what can this madness tend ? " she muttered ; " he
can never be anything to me — never ! He is a poor, mean-
spirited creature, incapable of a noble passion, without ambi-
tion, without any great aim in life — incapable of love ; he does
nothing but tremble in my presence like a whipped hound.
And I — I, an Ormsby, love such a man ! No, no. It is not
love. It is a vile infatuation. I will uproot it. Let reason
herself go, but I will — I will triumph over this weakness.
How can I love my inferior ? — a man I must stoop to men-
tally,— a man who could no more enter into my ideas than
he could climb to the stars. A man ! — nay, a beardless boy.
Yet — yet — Fate, thou art strong, but I will be strong too ; thou
shalt not conquer a soul like mine."
Yet, when Valerio came, Horatia had, like a true woman,
bestoWed double care on her toilette. She was singing ; her
voice was beautiful, and she had more expression than usually
falls to the share of an amateur.
To point out the beauty of a phnfse in the music, to indicate
its sty le, Valerio sang. He had no need to throw his soul into
the strain, it flowed therein naturally. In speech he might
have been embarrassed and hesitating ; in melody he stood
on his own vantage-ground, and needed no words to gloss his
eloquence.
Horatia's breath came shorter ; her voice failed ; her colour
went and came ; she could sing no more. The master requested
her to proceed.
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Only a Music-Master. 49
" I am hoarse ; I shall sing no more to-day," said Horatia
abruptly ; " I can play."
Of course her will was law ; she played, but perception and
memory were both at fault ; she made" mistake after mistake.
Valerio laid his hand on hers to direct her fingers.
" Do not touch me," she cried, so harshly that Valerio started
with surprise and pain. " We must stop ; I can do nothing
to-day ; I am ill."
"111!" repeated Valerio, with alarm, and a tenderness of
* tone he could not well restrain.
At that moment Mr. Ormsby entered. Hitherto they had
been alone. Horatia drew one long breath, and proceeded
with the lesson.
"But if you feel ill, Miss Ormsby!" said Valerio, with
anxiety.
" It has passed," said Horatia, and she went on with the
piece.
Mr. Ormsby nodded kindly to Valerio, and took up a news-
paper.
The lesson concluded, the master prepared to depart. He
seemed to have something to say, as he lingered a moment.
At last he hesitatingly brought forth — " Will you be so good
as to tell me, Miss Ormsby, when Miss Grantley is expected
home?"
" I know nothing of her movements."
" I beg your pardon. I took the liberty of asking because
I thought you were intimate with her."
" No ; I was intimate with her ; I am never likely to be so
again; but this much I will tell you, you will never — never
see her again," said Horatia, with a passionate earnestness in
her tone that seemed inexplicable ; then she added, with some
triumph in her eyes, " She is going to be married."
" Married ! " repeated Valerio, in a tone which Horatia took
for despair. Alas ! the poor master was only thinking of his
unpaid bill, — only thinking how the white-haired old woman
at home was waiting for certain comforts he coveted for her
till Miss Grantley's lessons should be paid for !
•' Yes, she is married ; — dream of her, sigh for her as you
will, it is in vain ; she is lost to you for ever ! "
" Miss Ormsby ! "
Horatia was so excited that she forgot to act.
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50 St. James's Magazine.
o
Her father looked up in surprise as the confused maestro
withdrew. " What is it, Horatia ? " he asked.
" It is, papa, that I feel it a duty to pull down the impudence
of that creature."
" Dear me — what has he done ? "
"Done, sir! He has dared to make love to Ellen
Grantley."
"You don't mean to say so! Good heavens! can it be
true?"
" Yes, papa, and had I not saved her, her fate was sealed —
her eternal disgrace."
" My dear child, Lord Selmore must be informed of this ;
it would break off the match directly," said Mr. Ormsby
eagerly.
" And dishonour you and me, sir, as spies and informers/'
s \id Horatia.
" But, my love, if this fellow is dishonourable, or pretends to
tep out of his place with you ! "
" With me, sir ! There is no danger, I can always defend
myself."
The next morning arrived a very humble note from Valerio.
He " feared he had unconsciously offended Miss Ormsby ;
perhaps she wished to discontinue the lessons." She replied
" certainly not — she was perfectly satisfied with Mr. Valerio
as a master." Valerio was in despair. How he longed to
break the spell that lay upon him : yet he wanted firmness
even to make the attempt.
In an evening of the hunter's moon, Valerio was playing
on the church organ — playing without any lamp but that
cold silver light that streamed in through the gothic windows ;
he poured forth a flood of harmony that entranced even his
own ear and kept him spell-bound. Presently his rich voice
melted into the melody, and both seemed ascending to pierce
the roof of the sacred dwelling. A slight pause in the strain
made the musician conscious of some one near him — nay,
very near. He was no coward ; he could have rushed un-
hesitatingly into the thick of a mortal fight, but like all people
of southern origin, or of warm imagination, he had his own
superstition, and now he hesitated to look behind him ; for a
minute or two his hands remained motionless on the organ,
and his voice was suspended — then, ashamed of his own weak-
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Only a Music-Master. 51
ness, he continued ; but once more became conscious of some
one near him, whose breathing reached his ear. With a
sadden impulse he darted round, and saw a darkly clad female
form retreating, with the rustling sound that silken garments
make. " Who — what art thou ? Be thou who thou wilt, by
heaven thou shalt not escape me 1 " He darted through the
church out into the solemn grave-yard, pursuing the flying
phantom, which fled like a spirit. Panting, he overtakes the
intruder — he has seized, has snatched the veil from her face,
and by the pale moonlight recognises Miss Ormsby.
" Horatia, my beloved ! " involuntarily escapes his lips, and
the answer to the tender address comes forth. " Thou hast
humbled me to the dust — me — such as I was. Take thou for
it the hatred of my whole life." But those were only passion-
ate words. Valerio could not be deceived by them; the
barriers of pride — nay, of reason, were thrown down,
the flood-gates of passion were thrown open, and proud
Horatia was conquered — nay, she had marched to her own
defeat, — drawn onward, and downward, by the power of
music.
CHAPTER XII.
temple's bachelor uncle.
UI HAVE fulfilled your injunctions to the letter, my dear
mother. I have found out, and been to see, my father's elder
brother. You never knew him, so I will be minute in my
description of him, his dwelling, and his conversation.
" I remember you specially desired to know every word he
said. Some of his words were so peculiarly ungracious that
I should omit them entirely but for your admonition. I had
no difficulty in finding him,, for his name stands prominently
in the list of benefactors of all the known charitable institu-
tions, with his address appended.
"I found him in chambers in the Albany, — handsome
rooms, at least, as far as size is concerned — for the paper and
paint have not been renewed for many years, and they were
gloomy. The furniture is of that old substantial mahogany
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52 Si. James's Magazine.
that never wears out, but looks dull and dingy unless under
the care of peculiar housewives. Round the walls are hung
several old-fashioned line engravings from historical paintings,
meant to be beautiful ; the frames had once been gilt, but
now closely resemble the colour of the watch that our old
neighbour the gardener winds up and sets every Saturday
night for Sunday wear, and devoutly believes too good gold
for week-day wear. Several bookcases are in the room, but
so closely shut up that they may contain anything but
literature. The apartments are not well kept, but there is a
precision in the general arrangements which evidently de-
pends more on the old gentleman's neatness, than on his
servants' industry.
" I was sending in my card, when I was informed that it
would be useless to ask for an interview with Mr. Temple for
the next two hours, as he was accustomed to spend all the
morning in the transaction of business regarding his various
pet charities ; in fact, if I could not wait in the anteroom, I
had better return later in the day. It was raining hard, so I
determined to remain and get through a disagreeable duty,
which I confess I should not consider a duty at all unless it
it were to fulfil your wishes. How to spend the time I could
not imagine, not the slightest sign of a book or paper appear-
ing, and the only sound being the rain patter patter against
the dim windows. The chairs were uncommonly hard, so I
began to walk up and down the room, when the servant who
had admitted me put his head in at the door, saying, ' I hope
no offence, sir, but master can't bear a noise ; your boots is
new, sir, and he's uncommon particular.' So my walk was
cut short !
" At length came the end of the two hours, which seemed
six. I sent in my card, and followed. My uncle rose,
— a tall, thin, stiff figure, a stiffer face, a blue look about the
nose and lips — frost-bitten; his fingers were long and thin,
his nails like Nebuchadnezzar's, or what we fancy them. I
should not have liked to shake hands with him, — but that he
did not attempt.
" He stood twisting the card in his fingers, with something
that in a warmer temperament I might have called agitation
He bowed.
" ' Sir/ the blue lips opened, though I saw no sign of breath
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Only a Music-Master. 53
coming forth — ' You have the advantage of me, sir/ he said
shortly.
"' I am the son of your brother, Arthur Temple/ I replied ;
* my mother desired me to see ypu sir, and to '
ut Your mother! ' he said, and there was, or I fancied there
was, a sneer on his face.
"'My father's wife/ I answered, 'who has been a true
mother to me.1
" I tried to restrain myself as best I could, but my blood
began to boil.
"'Your father's wife/ he repeated, and again he paused,
then resumed : ' To what end did she send you hither ? ' may
'"I presume, to make the acquaintance of my father's
brother/
"'It was an ill-judged thought/ he muttered — then spoke
aloud, 'Why should she attempt to thrust before me a living
evidence of the disgrace of the family, the one blot in our
house ? If she chooses to recognise vice, why should I ? '
" I don't know what I answered, but I feel that my words
were intemperate. All this time I had been standing*; he
drew nearer to me, and looked hard in my face — curiously
searchingly. He was struck by something I had said ; I
believe it must have been something outrageous. Again the
blue lips opened to speak, but I walked out of the room
feeling I had had quite enough.
"Oh, mother! mother! will the shame be on my brow
till it is in the dust ? Will every man who meets me have the
right to burn the brand in deeper? Your affection and
Ithama's love are all that God has given me ; sometimes I
feel that I shall lose them both and be quite desolate. This
man's words have affected me beyond description — his looks
still more. I feel myself a pariah, one against whom every
man's hand will throw a missile; and, alas, I fear that [the
fierce animal will be awakened in me, that I shall not turn
the other cheek to the smiter, but shall hurl back harder
blows than he deals me. By Heaven ! if my father's blood
had not run in that man's veins, I do believe I should have
sprung on him, and like a panther seized him by the throat.
Oh, my mother, my more than mother ! I need your gentle
influence, yours and my Ithama's, to reconcile me to life, to
keep the balance of my reason. But, for your dear sakes, I
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54 Sf. James's Magazine.
will try, I will indeed, to be calm and firm and moderate, to
meet insult with something like philosophy and resignation.
" How mysterious is God's will ! How inscrutable ! How
wonderful it seems that a notje heart like yours should have
been doomed to shed its treasures of affection upon sterile
natures — that Heaven should have denied you a son of
your own, a son who might have inherited your heart and
head, a son of whom you might have been proud ! Perhaps
even my brother, had we saved him, might hatfe proved
worthier of you than I can ever be. His was a gentle,
generous nature ; and, grown to man's estate, he would have
recognised all your goodness, and been grateful. But of what
avail to dilate on what might have been, what can never be !
" Farewell ! I will strive to meet your wishes, I will strive
to provide in the future a happy home for dear Ithama, and
perhaps you will come and sit down at our fireside some day,
and teach us by your example life's best lessons."
{To be continued.)
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The Old Sailor to his Wife.
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The Voyage to Come.
'XfK flDito Sailor to W Mitt.
HEN in my youth I sailed the sea,
My love was linked to thine ;
I thought of thee when waves ran free,
I knew thy heart was mine.
And when my ship to England's shore
Came back from dangers wild,
'Twas thou, whose greeting shone before,
'Twas thou who fairest smiled.
No longer o'er earth's stormy sea
I sail as when a boy ;
Old age to home endeareth me,
And perished is youth's joy.
But thou art still beside me, love,
And thou art sea and sky :
The shadows grow around us, love,
And wintry things must die.
But high aloft on God's bright sea
Our ship shall mount with pride,
And fair our voyage shall ever be
With true love side by side.
E. G.
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To Agnes; who is his Only Love.
fe>onff5jeoem, after t&e manner of Hjeccictu
OW will I lead a purer life
Since thou hast smiled on me ;
Washed in the waters of the earth
My loving heart shall be ;
And all my deeply dreaming soul,
By true love purified,
Shall gather strength for thy delight
When fond love hails thee bride.
Now will I search through all the earth
For flow'rets fresh and fair ;
To bloom upon thy breast of snow,
Or grace thy raven hair ;
And stars that shine when night glows deep,
And glories of the day,
Shall yield their treasures to my prayers
Which at thy feet I'll lay.
Now will I take thee to my heart
And love thee evermore,
Faithful as waves whose fond embrace
Entwines the summer shore.
Oh, fix those glowing eyes on mine,
Thy lover claims thy charms ;
Oh, let him take thee to his heart,
Within loves faithful arms.
f^i^^i
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Our Modern Poets.
No. VL— 90atH)eto acnoltu
By THOMAS BAYNE.
>|NE sometimes wonders what kind of poem an
eminent critic would write. He is such an adept
at finding all the weak points and the serious
faults of his author, that the innocent reader
cannot but feel that this is the man whose capabilities
are for verse, and not that other whose misfortune, un-
doubtedly, must be based upon something very like pre-
sumption. The eminent critic must surely have done injustice
somehow to his natural longings, otherwise it is odd that he
should be so familiar with all the essential elements of
" The light that never was on sea or land."
Satirists, from Dryden to Disraeli, have asserted that critics
are the men who have failed, and they are pleased thus
to account for their authoritative tone and unwarranted
severities. Such an interpretation of the critical attitude
is akin to the theory illustrated by the immortal story of
sour* grapes, and a certain degree of truth in it is the
explanation of its frequent recurrence. But it is also to
be noted that there are eminent critics whose censure can
hardly be restrained within due limits, and who notwith-
standing have achieved high distinction as original poets.
Instances will readily occur to those familiar with the
subject, and it is only necessary to add here that such
critics will generally be found to be the advocates of some
special aesthetic dogma or limited poetic culture. It would
still be interesting to find an experiment by them in the
sphere whose possibilities they denounce or deny.
There is, however, a class of critical workmen wholly
different from these, and not less interesting, though perhaps
apt to be less attractive in their method. There is an allure-
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60 St. James's Magazine.
ment about the incisive vigour and the uncompromising
sweep of a Gifford and a Jeffrey that is irresistible, even
when the reader may feel that the treatment is not altogether
fair. There can be no doubt as to what such writers mean,
and at any rate their hard hitting is enjoyable at the moment.
It is wholly different with the patient examining genius of a
Sainte-Beuve or a Coleridge, whose duty it is to find out
exactly what the author has accomplished, and thereafter
to inform general readers to the best of their ability. Their
method is exemplified for all time in the loving examination
of Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads in the " Biographia Lite-
raria." Students of this order may be called interpreters
in contrast to the mere professional critics. As the danger
of the latter is in their haste to miss the author's aim
altogether — as Jeffrey did, for instance, with the "White
Doe" — so that of the former is to find more than the
writer really meant, and to o'erinform the original work
with their own metaphysics. It is only necessary to refer
to some of Coleridge's own work for examples of this, and
to German aesthetic critics of Shakspeare for the develop-
ment of the method to its utmost exaggerated form. It is to
eminent critics of this class, however, that one is apt to look
for interesting original poetry.
Matthew Arnold takes a noteworthy place among the
interpreters. His sympathies, on his own showing, are with
the criticism whose business it is " simply to know the best
that is known and thought in the world, and by in its turn
making this known, to create a current of true and fresh
ideas." It is in accordance with this spirit that the author
is able, in his " Essays in Criticism," to make such interesting
studies of Joubert and the De Guerins, where undeniably
the original material is meagre enough. Here is one to
whom a suggestion is really valuable, one whose method
may be liable to exaggerate the worth of his original, while
it cannot fail to show the readiness and the fertility of his
own interpretative faculty. It is clear, therefore, that funda-
mentally this critic must be a poet. He has the delicate
instinct, the quick perception, the power of remote and
interesting association — it may be, too, some share of the
faculty of imagination — and the only remaining necessity
is that he should have the capable voice. When we find
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Our Modern Poets. 61
in critical prose a vein of calm meditative reflection and
inference, a patient setting forth not merely of what the
author says, but also of what the critic takes to be the
possible sweep of his idea, we conclude that the interpreter
is more than a mere expounder, and it will depend upon
the nature of the case whether we set him down as a
poet or a philosopher. Now there is something to be said
in defence of that older and more liberal definition of the
poet which was admitted by our early writers on the subject.
Sir Philip Sidney, for instance, would have inclined to esteem
certain pure styles as poetic, and would have given writers of
"impassioned prose" the title of poet, though it had never
been their fortune to link together three mechanical iambics.
There is in poetry, too, a value belonging to what is said no
less than excellence in the manner of saying it. The contents
of a poem must be considered no less than its form. De
Quinsey's "Levana," for example, and much more of his
writing besides, is thoroughly poetical : if analysed and esti-
mated worthily, such writings would have to be classed in
a way that would surprise the advocates of strict poetical
form — and yet it is not common to speak of the English
Opium-Eater as a poet. A good deal also of Mr. Carlyle s
writing is nothing if not poetical, and it is only because of
our strait definitions that he can be called a Homer without
the gift of song. The fact is that there is a tendency to
underrate impassioned prose in this generation. We are
too apt to become impatient for facts, and are altogether
too commercial in the spirit with which we approach our
critics and essayists. So far as mere information is -con-
cerned, so far as exact knowledge can be said to have profited
Matthew Arnold need never have written those articles of
his on Maurice and Eugenie de Guerin and Joubert, but then
they show him to have the penetrating insight and the lively
appreciation that characterize the poet. We should have
spontaneously said, after perusal of such reflective prose, this
writer is a poet whether he has ever composed in metrical
forms or not He has the power to portray, to vary by
effects of light and shade, to introduce his readers to close
searchings of the heart, and to enable them to have delight
in distant perspective. He has a considerable share of that
magic power by which Wordsworth can interest the world
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62 • 5/. James's Magazine.
in the prattle of a little child, and make rare wisdom fall from
the lips of an inspired pedlar.
With such a writer of prose it is perhaps not surprising to
find that his poetry sometimes is little other than prose ex-
pressed in metrical form. It is sometimes difficult to catch
the melody, and occasionally the poetical air is so thin that
one has difficulty in breathing it. Some of the sonnets and
the reflective poems are open to criticism of this kind. They
do not fulfil the requisite conditions that underlie such com-
positions ; they are not poetical in sound as well as in sense ;
they lack voice though having soul. Were we to apply to
this sonnet on " Worldly Place," for example, nothing but the
ordinary rules of construction and scansion, we should have
little difficulty in deciding on its merits : —
"Even in a palace, life may' be led well I
So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men,
Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den
Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,
Our freedom for a little bread we sell,
And drudge under some foolish master's ken,
Who rates us, if we peer outside our pen —
Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell ?
Even in a palace / On his truth sincere,
Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came ;
And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame
Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,
I'll stop, and say : * There were no succour here !
The aids to noble life are all within.'"
The manager of the "poet's corner " in a local newspaper
would speedily dispose of such a production as this ; such an
agent knows nothing, and cares as little, for the laws of the
tercets and the exhaustion of the single idea. To him the
prime essential is that there be no limping feet ; the sense
and the laws of construction may take care of themselves as
best they can, — the one thing clear is that they have not the
slightest interest for him. An interesting discussion is at once
suggested here as to the comparative merits, in poetical com-
positions, of all sound and no sense, and much wisdom minus
all melody. It is impossible, however, to do it justice here
further than to say that wisdom is valuable in any dress, and
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Our Modern' Poets. 63
that the variations possible to a ten-stringed instrument are in
all circumstances preferable to the monotonous performance
of a lonely flute. In other words, the delight in sweet sounds
cannot be permanently cherished by mere verbal effects. r\\
Indeed, nothing palls upon the taste sooner than words /J*-\
jangled, however skilfully, for their own sake alone: On the 4-ft* X '
other hand, melody wedded to nobleness of thought con- ^ v*
stitutes a beauty whose elements are. divine. This is the ..v
sphere of the perfect Apollo. The nearer the approximation
made to this ideal, the nobler will be the poet's work, the
more godlike the features of the poet. He is sometimes told,
indeed, not to try it at all unless he is likely to reach it alto-
gether,— a theory that would have the top of Parnassus
covered, if possible, but the sides as untenanted as Benharrow
It is a tyrannical — at any rate a cynical — spirit that would
have perfect poetry or none, that would have good prose rather
than average poetry. To put it shortly, a man that tries to
say something in poetry, and does not effect his object very
well, is not likely to make any attempt at all to express the
same thing in prose. Besides, there is the chance that, in
writing verse which no one would think of comparing with
the compositions of Shakspeare or Wordsworth or Burns, a
poet may say something that will benefit the world, and that
might never have been said otherwise. We must, in a word,
assume that there is a poetry of intellect, as well as a poetry
of inspiration. That does not imply, of course, that any and
all kinds of feet, and a winged contempt for feet altogether
must be tolerated ; but it certainly goes on the assumption
that there is a difference between Shakspeare and Pope, and
that melody is one thing to the Poet Laureate, and apparently
quite another to Mr. Walt Whitman.
- All Mr. Arnold's sonnets are thoughtful and wise, and
several of them are not lacking in true poetic expression. As
a rule, however, they are overweighted with material, and the
closeness and compactness of the ideas and the rigidity of the
lines of thought are the outstanding features. The reader
will hardly have time for the consideration of metrical graces
in the difficulties that will beset him in grasping the argument.
There is one sonnet, however, that bears its meaning on its
face, as every good sonnet should do; and for that very reason
it exhibits, better than most of the others, the authors metrical
64 St. James's Magazine.
resources. It is a tribute to the memory of Shakspeare, and
a sturdy appreciation of his universal influence : —
" Others abide our question : Thou art free !
We ask and ask : Thou smilest and art still.
Out-topping knowledge ! So some sovran hill
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty,
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place,
Spares but the border, often, of his base
To the foiPd searching of mortality ;
And thou, whose head did stars and sunbeams know,
Self-schoord, self-scannM, self-honourtl, self-secure,
Didst walk on earth unguess'd at. Better so ! '
All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow,
Find their sole voice in that victorious brow."
The general meaning of this is apparent at once, while to the
practised thinker there are lines that will be suggestive of
interesting trains of thought. The impression left, however,
by all these sonnets is that they are experiments, and very
notable ones too, in difficult verse.
Further illustrations of the poetry of intellect are to be
found in Mr. Arnold's reflective poems, some of which are
rhymed and lyrical in form, and others not. They are all
charged with the rich thought that comes of original strength
and superior culture, but there" is a want of that easy spon-
taneity which is of the essence of true poetry. Those interested
in high thinking are sure to read such reflections or discussions
without much thought as to rhythm or metrical feet. But
both form and substance are against their popularity with a
majority of readers. They are studies of a kind that neither
a writer nor a reader would much care for in prose, and there
is about them, as they stand, an attractiveness and interest
apart altogether from ordinary poetical considerations. They
are a sturdy confutation of Mr. Carlyle's thesis that if a man
has anything really important to say he is likely to do it in
prose. This is the very kind of writing, midway between
philosophical prose and didactic verse, which suits the purpose
of a thinker that has no time to enter upon a treatise, afnd no
inclination to elaborate an " Excursion." Poetical purists may
object to the encouragement of such poems as " Resignation/'
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Our Modem Pods. 65
'•The Youth of Man," and "The Future," but after all there
is no real ground for alarm. The poet has something to say
for at any rate a skilled minority of readers, and these are
not likely to set up any new theory of aesthetic taste to suit
any such exceptional outcome. Take, for instance, such a
passage as the following from " The Buried Life," and it will
show exactly what is meant by a composition whos t essence
is too ethereal for prose, and whose form is yet not exactly
what readers of poetry naturally look for: —
" But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife, *
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life, —
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course ;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us, — to know
Whence our thoughts come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas, none ever mines !
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power ;
But hardly have we, for one little tour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves ! "
This is musing of a kind that will interest in any form,
though it is hardly too much to say that there are not likely
to be many who will follow it, with an appreciation of all its
bearings, throughout this poem. Notwithstanding that, such
calm introspection and such a line of meditation belong to
the poet rather than the psychologist, they speak of that power
of interpretation which is characteristic of the calm critic, and
betrays his affinities with the true poet. Thus far, then,
we have found Mr. Arnold strong in possibilities ; he is in the
right element if he can only develop himself properly. It is
not that he has to learn the mechanism of verse, but that he
should manage to give free articulation to the poetry of his
nature — this is what the analysis hitherto has gone to prove.
Nor is it a consideration of time and growth that in any way
meets the purpose ; there is a maturity about all the poems
that dispenses with all allowances which might, in other cases,
be made for greater or less inexperience. It makes no differ-
ence, in this survey, whether one poem was written before
VOL. I. /5v
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66 St. James's Magazine.
i
another or after it ; such a power of expression as that indi-
cated is not a matter of years, but of strength and method.
In " Resignation," for instance, and the " Epilogue to Lessing's
Laocoon," we find the author very much in the same mood
as that which pervades "The Buried Life," but in both his
manner is better, and the general outcome altogether more
poetical. The former, it has been pointed out, is in Words-
worth's vein, and it may just be added that it is well worthy
to be compared with its model. The latter is cast very much
in the same mould, and is one of the best of Mr. Arnold's
meditative poems. One extract will show freedom and delicacy
of touch, and more ease and quickness of expression than we
have hitherto found. The poem is a study of comparative
art, and, after due admiration of musician and painter, the
poet sums up thus : —
li Only a few the life-stream's shore
With safe unwandering feet explore ;
Untired its movements bright attend,
Follow its windings to the end.
Then from its brimming waves their eye
Drinks up delighted ecstasy,
And its deep-toned, melodious voice,
For ever makes their ear rejoice.
They speak ! the happiness divine
They feel, runs o'er in every line ;
Its spell is round them like a shower,
It gives them pathos, gives them power.
No painter yet hath such a way,
Nor no musician made, as they ;
And gathered on immortal knolls
Such lovely flowers for cheering souls."
The want of rhyme is a drawback to some of the meditative
poems in lyric form, such as " Consolation," and the fine elegy
entitled " Heine's Grave." Still there is such an air of lyric
sweetness in these poems that occasionally the reader is
carried on, and feels that he is under the genuine spell. It
almost takes reflection, for example, to discover that this
is un rhymed : —
" Charm is the glory which makes
Song of the poet divine ;
Love is the fountain of charm !
How without charm wilt thou draw,
Poet ! the world to thy way ?
Not by the lightnings of wit !
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Our Modern Poets. 67
Not by the thunder of scorn !
These to the world, too, are given ;
Wit it possesses, and scorn —
Charm is the poet's alone."
Still there is the true appreciative critic mainly, but we are
coming to the original workmanship at last The charm here
celebrated sends us at once to the author's poems " Baccha-
nalia " and " Empedocles on iEtna,'* both charged with rare
delicacy and grace, breathing the pure ethereal spirit of the
Greek. Both of these are delightful poems, the strictly lyrical
parts in particular showing the author's easy command of
diction and rhythm. The " Bacchanalia " is in two parts, the
first depicting the contrast between the calm of evening and
the midnight revelry of the mythological Bacchanals, and the
second doing the same for the overthrow of the Past by
the Present. This introduces us to the very inner circle of
the inspired rout : —
" Loitering and leaping,
With saunter, with bounds-
Flickering and circling
In files and in rounds —
Gaily their pine-staff green
Tossing in air,
Loose o'er their shoulders white
Showering their hair. -
See ! the wild Maenads
Break from the wood,
Youth and Iacchus
Maddening their blood !
See ! through the quiet land
Rioting they pass. —
Fling the fresh heaps about,
Trample the grass !
Tear from the rifled hedge
Garlands, their prize ;
Fill with, their sports the field,
Fill with their cries ! n
In the second part the end of an epoch is delineated, all the
stillness and repose of evening concentrating, as it were, on
the bosom of the dead age. The feeling is that the glory is
departed, and there is a sadness like to that which overhung
the moody spirit at the close of the eighteeeth century, when
it was felt that all poetry was at an end with Pope and his
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68 St. James's Magazine.
followers. But every one knows how sudden and thorough
was the revolution.
- " Thundering and bursting
In torrents, in waves —
Carolling and shouting
Over tombs, amid graves —
See ! on the cumberM plain
Clearing a stage,
Scattering the past alout,
Comes the new age ! n
The poet sees the beauty of such strength and vigour, just as
he sees it in the behaviour of the Maenads, but to him it is
fraught with matter for deep meditation. There was so much
that was beautiful before the change, that it is just possible
the change may not be altogether an unmixed blessing. It
is a shepherd that is like to fret over the confusion made by
the Bacchanals; and the Poet, looking, upon the new age,cannot
but help thinking af the old. Thus; when he is asked to give
a reason for being so pale and wan, amid a perfect cornucopia
of blessings, he is obliged to declare the little faith he has in
the vaunted march of intellect : —
" Look, ah, what genius,
Art, science, wit,
Soldiers like Caesar,
Statesmen like Pitt !
Sculptors like Phidias,
Raphaels in shoals,
Poets like Shakspeare—
Beautiful souls !
See, on their glowing cheeks
Heavenly the flush !
. . . Ah, so the silence was /
S<i was the hush / "
The delicate satire is in need of no elucidation, and the moral
therefore needs not to be quoted. It is hardly necessary,
moreover, to add, that in poetry of this kind there is some-
thing that makes a direct appeal to the inner consciousness
and at once declares the composition to be of the right fibre.
So does the perusal of the more elaborate " Empedocles on
^Etna," with its graceful memorable lyrics, impress us with
the conviction that the quick sense and appreciation of idea
beauty are not merely from of old. Both the lofty meditations
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Our Modern Poets. 69
of Empedocles and the songs of Callicles arc exquisite studies
in and for themselves; and it is quite possible to admire them
and feel their influence without being troubled by the reflec-
tion that they are worked into a slim dramatic fragment*
The poet's conception of Empedocles is perhaps hardly broad
enough — it would need some elaboration at any rate to bring
it to the true classic dignity ; but the use made of Callicles,
the young harp-player, is admirable in the highest degree.
We have in his songs the very reflex of pure Greek lyric ;
one breathes in this company the azure deep that o'er-canopied
the world's youth. Verily, it is true that " charm is the jpoet's
alone." Where is painter that could approach this ?
" When from far Parnassus' side,
Young Apollo, all the pride
Of the Phrygian flutes to tame,
To the Phrygian highlands came !
Where the long green reed-beds sway
In the rippled waters grey
Of that solitary lake
Where Maeander's springs are born
Where the ridged pine-wooded roots
Of Messogis westward break,
Mounting westward, high and higher.
There was held the famous strife !
There the Phrygian brought his flutes,
And Apollo brought his lyre ! '*
But the concluding song is the gem. It were superfluous to
ask for painter and musician combined to produce anything
like it. The measure in itself is a perfect charm, and the
whole atmosphere of the song is charged with the delicacy
of romance, and the sweet tenderness of lyric beauty.
Empedocles has just plunged into the crater of jEtna, owing
to his dissatisfaction with his contemporaries, when Callicles
with true inspiration, sings,
" Not here, O Apollo !
Are haunts meet for thee.
But, where Helicon breaks down
In cliff to the sea ; n
and, after showing what the befitting surroundings are, he has-
this immortal vision :
" What forms are there coming
So white through the gloom ?
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70 Si. James's Magazine.
What garments out-glistening
The gold-flowered broom ?
What sweet-breathing presence
Out-perfumes the thyme ?
What voices enrapture
The night's balmy prime ?
Tis Apollo comes leading
His choir, the Nine,
... The leader is fairest,
But all are divine.
They are lost in the hollows !
They stream up again !
What seeks on this mountain
The glorified train ? . . .
Thfey bathe on this mountain,
la the spring by their road ;
Then oh to Olympus,
Their endless abode ! n
A similar purity of inspiration and classical delicacy pervade
"The Strayed Reveller," and "TheForsaken Merman/' the latter
of which is aglow with the freshness and buoyancy of sea and
shore. It is a poem of tender intimate associations, involving
deep pathos in the aspirations and desires that twine them-
selves about a mythical domestic bereavement. There is the
intensity of deep human grief, based on sad personal expe-
rience, in "Rugby Chapel," "Stanzas composed at Carnac,"
and "A Southern Night," in which a departed father and brother
are commemorated. But the best of the memorial poems,
and among the best of their kind, are two that for artistic
purposes must be taken together, "The Scholar Gipsy,"
and " Thyrsis." The first leads up to the second — a beautiful
tribute to the memory of the authors friend Arthur Hugh
Clough. There are in the English language a great many
fine poems to the memory of departed friends, but there are
only four or five that make an approach to the ancient Greek
ideal towardswhich theyall work. Milton's "Lycidas," Shelley's
"Adonais/'TennysonV'In Memoriam,"and Arnold's "Thyrsis,"
may fairly be allowed to hold the first rank alone. A note-
worthy recent addition to this class of poems is Mr. Swin-
borne's " Ave atque vale," in memory of Baudelaire. Still,
however, these four stand very much by themselves, every one
of them having a distinctive merit of its own. " Thyrsis " is
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Out Modern Poets. 71
the least elaborate of the four, but fails them no whit in
graceful tenderness and fond regret. Nor in any one of them
is there such a vivid realization of wistful reminiscence as
there is in this illustration of how " it irked him to be here,"
and he went in the very prime of his days —
" So, some tempestuous morn in early June,
When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er,
Before the roses and the longest day . ". .
When garden walks, and all the grassy floor,
With blossoms, red and white, of fallen May,
And chesnut- flowers are strewn . . .
So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry,
From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees, N
Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze :
The bloom is gone, audwith the bloom go II "
Of the purely narrative poems, there is a Homeric state
liness and dignity in " Sohrab and Rustua ," and a Virgilian
purity and delicacy in " Balder Dead.* In " Tristram and
Iseult " there is subtle analysis of character, dramatic force, and:
passionate intensity, which give evidence of Mr. Arnold's fitness
for that species of composition towards which he was once en-
couraged by the greatest living writer of dramatic poetry. It
is probable, however, that Mr. Arnold has done best in follow- -
ing his own poetical bent. He has thus written much
thoughtful poetry, and shown what a born critic can do
towards casting into permanent form the fleeting influences -
of the hour, as well as linking Past with Present through
sharp perception of the inner spirit of beauty.
" Whose praise do they mention ?
Of what is it told? . . .
What will be for ever ;
What was from of old."
SKjg^fcj
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A Troublesome Girl.
8L Canadian fetorp*
By THEO. GIFT.
^HE was not a beauty at all : not even pretty, in my
opinion. A young woman of middle height, but
looking decidedly stumpy from undue exuberance
of figure and flesh, the former with difficulty packed
into cotton gowns always too small for her, and much torn by
repeated efforts at " pinning together " across the body ; the
latter obtrusively evident in cheeks round and red as winter
apples, and arms round also and huge — columns of red, mottled
marble, capable of felling an ox, and bared to sun and wind
above the elbow ; — a young woman with a square jaw, a wide
mouth filled with very fair white teeth, a shock of frizzly red
brown hair, never smooth, and eyes round and black as ivy-
berries, and sparkling with impudent audacity. Not a very
fascinating tout ensemble, I think, and in morals and manners
.rather worse than deficient.
I never had such a troublesome girl in the house in all my
life before.
We were living in the backwoods of Canada, where I had a
large farm, and Janet was our housemaid. A housemaid is, I
believe, generally supposed to keep a house clean : ours
rivalled an IrL-h cabin for dirt, fleas, flue, and disorder, during
the whole period of her reign : likewise to take care of the
china, glass, etc. She had not been with us a week before she
laid a " smash tax " of fifty per cent, on every breakable
article; while the remainder presented a melancholy assem-
blage of starred, cracked, and mutilated objects, which would
have led a stranger to suppose that some one, following poor
Theodore Hook's lead in practical joking, had introduced a
lively young Alderncy into our china closet. Her person —
well, if the cotton gowns afore-mentioncd have failed to give
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A Troublesome GiiL* 73
you an idea on the subject, I had better let it rest. Dirt and
rags may be picturesque in artistic eyes, and even be valu-
able as " models " for professional purposes ; but when they
bring you your shaving water of a morning, and hand you
your soup at dinner, they fail to be agreeable. When I men-
tion as one item that I never saw J>inet better shod than with
a pair of worn-out labourer's boots, or the down-trodden
slippers of her mistress, you may guess at some of the trials
endured by an Oxford man of limited means and large ideas
of method and orderliness, and a dear little invalid wife too
gentle to bully a cat.
Alas ! if Janet had but been only dirty and careless !
She was worse. She was the most finished coquette and
the most heartless flirt in the province. The amount of
quarrels, jealousies, heartburnings, and heart-breakings caused
by that girl since she was nine years old could not be cata-
logued, and were never referred to by herself except with a
complacent toss of her rumpled head and a peal of laughter
as delighted as a child's. And it was of no use to speak to her
on that or any subject. I never met a young female with less
development of the " bump " of reverence or greater develop-
ment in the article of cheek. The mildest rebuke wa^ certain
to be followed by a retort, sometimes only good-humouredly
saucy ; but generally as explosive (her temper being of the
violent and tempestuous order) as though you had pulled the
trigger of a loaded gun. She was incorrigibly idle also, and,
with the strength and energy of a female Hercules, would
desert scrubbing-brush or broom at the merest sound of a
labourers whistle; and let our dinner get cold while she was
gossiping in the yard with another of the same fraternity. -
u What can they see in her to admire?" I would say, de-
spairingly, to Emily after we had caught some handsome,
strapping fellow casting hopeless sheep's-eyes at our draggled
" Dowsabel " ; and Emily would answer, smiling,
" I don't know, dear ; 1 think it is her tongue — she bullies
them all so ; and then there are so few women here."
I expect the latter was the real reason ; and yet qui salt ?
Every man on the farm was at Janet's feet; while the cook, a
French Canadian, and a tidy, nice-looking, soft-spoken creature,
merely came in for what the other girl insolently called her
" leavings." ^
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74 Si. James's Magazine.
If ever two women hated one another those two did.
I could understand it with F&ice, who was really a superior
young woman, and could hardly be expected to like being shut
up with no female society but that fille du diable, as I once
heard her mutter plaintively in Janet's direction. But she at
least conducted her dislike under decent veils, while the
younger girl's voice, raised to storming pitch, and launching
out unqualified abuse, would even penetrate to the sitting-
room, and call for remonstrance from her mistress. Very
prettily Janet was wont to receive such mediation. I can see
her now, her cheeks redder than ever, her arms akimbo, and
her eyes flashing unsubdued scorn as she retorted.
" Makin' a noise ? I dare say I was makin' a noises an' so
'ould you b6, ma'am, if you'd an aggravatin' faggot like that
there in the parlour! Why, she'd strip the skin off a live eel
with her lies and wiciousness, the weasel ! " to which Felice
would only reply, with a slight shrug of her trim shoulders,
and a mild
*Ne faut pas vous deranger, Madame. Je m'y suis bien
accoutum^e.
Of course you English people wonder why we kept such a
firebrand and ne'er-do-well in the house. In London she
would have been turned into the streets at a moment's notice ;
or rather never taken thence at all. Unfortunately, however,
women in the backwoods are as much too scarce as they are
too plentiful at home ; and women servants are as black swans
for rarity, hard t© find, and harder still to keep. Under these
circumstances Janet had to be taken in default of a better ;
and though never a day passed without her receiving at least
a dozen well-merited rebukes, and our resolving as many
times to get rid of her before another week, the rebukes were
as u water spilt upon the plain," and the resolutions went with
others to pave a certain place.
The fact was we could not get another girl in the neighbour-
hood ; and Emily's health was too delicate either to do without
a second, or to stand the fatigue of a journey to Montreal in
search of a better. As for Janet, she seemed provokingly
satisfied both with her place and her employers ; and though
making our lives miserable, causing endless quarrels among
the men by her coqueteries, and scandalising her fellow-
servant's notions of propriety at every turn, she persisted in
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A Troublesome GirL 75
snubbing each and all of the offers of marriage lavished on
her, and regarded herself in the light of the guardian angel
and support of our household, without whom indeed we should
have been left helpless and desolate.
" If Liz were gone, perhaps I might think on settling/* she
would say, if Emily gently reminded her of the folly, to say
the least, of her numerous flirtations ; " but I ain't such a brute
as to leave you to the like o* her. Don't you fear ! Why,
she'd poison you right off as soon as not ; an' master's that
soft he'd never see through her. Men are so precious green,
ma am.
I happened to be rn the next room when I heard myself
thus flatteringly described to the wife of my bosom ; but I
honestly believe it would have made no difference had I been
actually present. Like Alaric of old, Janet feared neither
God nor man.
Emily used to try and excuse her sometimes, and say she
had a good heart at bottom. The fact is, that once when my
wife was very ill Janet nursed her night and day, never even
taking off her clothes for three weeks, and somehow managing
to do the best part of her work as well, and with less noise
and destruction than usual. Emily never forgot this, and
used to hold it up as a proof of underlying virtues, even
though Janet (who slept in her mistress's room for the time)
used to avail herself of the dressing-room window as a medium
for holding lengthy midnight conversations with one of her
lovers, the invalid lying all the while with the door of com-
munication open between her and the cold night air. I spoke
to her very sharply about it ; not on the score of propriety,
(Janet being perfectly hardened there, and fond of boasting .
that she was quite capable of " taking keer on herself against
a bushel of such poor, miserable things as men, silly bodies ! ")
hut simply to remark that if she would talk to Martin at that
hour, she might have shut the door into my wife's room.
Janet stared at me :
"Shut the door! Why, dear sake! didn't I leave it opei
a' purpose in case she should want somethin'. I aren't a girl
to leave Madam a-callin' for an hour: an' fresh air never
hurt no one in summer yet, an' didn't her either."
It is worthy of note that Janet never attempted to deny or
gloss over any of her malpractices, a trait which Emily alluded
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76 5/. James's Magazine.
to as " frankness/' and I as "insolence." My wife's judgment
is apt to be biassed by partiality ; and she is besides one of
those persons who would find some good in the Prince of
Evil if you were to say too much against him.
One day Janet fell in love.
The object was a young Englishman whom I had recently
hired as foreman, a good-looking young fellow of very re-
spectable parentage ; and I was not displeased to see that his
first impression of our handmaidens was decidedly in favour
of the Canadian. A little admiration might do our clever
modest Felice no harm, while Janet rather wanted a dose of
snubbing, which the men in general did not seem inclined to
give her.
"It is reaHy disgraceful to ourselves to have such a girl in
the kitchen," I said to Emily. " Tom Carter looked at her
as if she were a wild beast when I told him he must mess
with the women here till his cabin was built If it were not
for Felice, I should feel quite ashamed to ask him to sit down
with such a savage."
Alas! alas! before a week was over all my hopes were
dashed to the ground. Tom Carter preferred savagery to
civilisation ; Felice was nowhere ; and Janet, who had set out
to conquer, fell hopelessly in love with her easily subjugated
victim.
I think she felt that the subjugation was only apparent.
Respectable as were Tom's parents, the man himself was a
bit of a scamp in matters of morality, and decidedly more
skilled in flirtations than our simple, country-bred louts.
Janet- was the girl before whom all the other men bowed ;
therefore Tom felt bound to "go in" for her also, oust the
others, and teach her to bow to him. To do this required a
good deal of trouble and ardour, (Janet not appreciating
lukewarm devotion,) and Tom accordingly lavished on her
such superfine worship that the young woman was fairly
caught, and was soon ready to kiss the ground on which her
lover trod.
No housework was done now! If Janet was indoors,
she was either sitting with her hands in her lap dreaming of
Tom, or else botching up her miserable wardrobe to make
herself look more worthy in his eyes. Love indeed did what
neither self-respect nor reproaches had hitherto achieved.
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A Troublesome Girl. 77
Her hair was prettily arranged ; she became almost tidy in
her dress, and grew quite friendly with Felice, confiding all her
hopes and happiness to that young woman, and paying her libe-
rally for assistance in the mysteries of cap and collar making.
Emily used to say that if Felice had a fault it was over-
acquisitiveness, and that, despite the animosity between the
girls, she never made Janet a present of clothing or other
needful, but that it, or part of it, was certain to revert to
Felice's wardrobe before many days were over. I know
nothing about this, of course, but I do know that if love
made Janet neater it had no good influence i:i any other
respect. She was hardly ever in the house at all now, and
took to haunting Tom's footsteps and hindering his work,
until more than once I threatened to send them both away,
and warned Janet that another offence would entail instant
dismissal on herself at any rate. It had no effect. She only
waited till dark instead, and then slipped out, keeping us
waiting for tea, or preventing Felice from shutting up for the
night while she was rambling about the farm-quarters phi-
landering with Tom.
Even Emily said that for the girl's own sake she feared it
would be better to send her away, and wait for the chance
of another turning up.
Fate, or Providence, however, arranged otherwise. The
winter was setting in with an aoiount of cold unusual even
in Canada; and strong as Janet was, she was not strong
enough to brave with impunity constant rushes out of the
hot kitchen into the bitter evening frost, to stand about, often
with arms and head uncovered, talking to rur lover in the
yard. One evening she came in looking flushed and speaking
hoarsely. Before morning she was dangerously ill.
It was an attack of bronchitis, combined with inflammation
of the lungs, and so bad that for nearly five weeks she never
left her room. For the first two days of her illness Tom
Carter lounged about in rather an aimless way, and came
once or twice into the kitchen to inquire for her. ' On the
third he turned his attentions to Felice ; and before the end
of a fortnight Felice came to my wife and told her very
prettily and modestly that she and Carter were engaged to
be married, and would only wait till he had had time to get
his cabin finished and furnished.
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78 St. fames' s Magazine.
"And Janet?" Emily asked, rather shocked.
" Jeanette ? " and Felice smiled superiorly. " Tom was only
amusing himself with Jeanette. She also amuses herself, and
with all men, voyez-vous, Madame ? £a ne fait rien avec ccs
femmes-ci. Du reste, she has not of any ' dot.' One does not
marry with a girl who has nothing, if one is a prudent man.
Pour moi, I have put away two hundred francs in the last
two years alone/'
And indeed, leaving the " dot " alone, I was obliged to tell
Emily that the girl was rightly served, and only being paid
in her own coin.
Who told her I don't know. It was the day after she had
first come downstairs, and I was in the hall giving some
directions to one of the labourers, a half-silly creattre, and
one of Janet's most slavish and ill-used admirers, when the
girl came up to us. Her face, which seemed shrunk to half
its usual size, was white as paper, and her voice, still husky
and weak from illness, sounded hardly intelligible.
" Lend me your clasp knife, will you ? " she said, her breath
coming in heavy pants between each word, and her lips
shaking like leaves in a hot wind. Sam, at whom she looked,
only stared foolishly ; and I asked her what she wanted it for.
Her answer made me start.
" To kill Liz. Look here, master," coming nearer to me,
and gazing up wildly into my face, her black eyes big and
hollow enough now; "did you know she'd been an' took
Tom from me? They said so, an' I didn't believe it. I
couldn't believe it, even on her — her who knew all along. . . .
But it's true. I heard him myself tell her, now this minute,
in the yard, as he'd only been playing with me, to take me
down a bit. Playing with me ! Good God, master, do lend
me a knife, an' I'll take tier down. Aye, that I will. Do,
master, please ! "
The girl seemed out of her mind. Her thin hands were
burning hot and clenched ; her big, wasted limbs, trembling
from head to foot. Emily came out and tried to soothe and
take her away. All her persuasions, however, could not
damp Janet's rage for vengeance; and Felice, really fright-
ened, kept out of her way with care, and slept with the
dairyman's wife at night, to be out of the house.
The following day happened to be Sunday, and Felice
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A Troublesome Girl. 79
who had kept the kitchen door locked all the morning, ob-
tained leave to go out for a walk as soon as the early dinner
was over. Naturally, Carter was going with her; but not
approving of his volatility, I had forbidden him the house for
the present
Two hours later, " Silly Sam," as they called the softy, /S;> -
came into the kitchen where Janet was sitting, crouched over /c***
the fire, and coughing dismally. Jfy ' -;-
~ Felice is out wi' Tom," he said shortly. «£& ^ <f* *
Janet made no answer, only sank her head lower over the vr v^ ,
blaze, and clenched her hands viciously.
" She ain't a-coming back no more, either," he went on.
" Don't lie," retorted Janet hoarsely ; " she's only sleepin'
out for fear o' me ; but I'll be even with her yet. See, just ! "
and she clenched her hands tighter.
" Never you trouble," said Sam, grinning, " an' give us your
hand, Janet, for I've been even wi' her for you."
She lifted her head and stared wonderingly at him, while
the triumphant grin deepened on his unmeaning face.
" Aye, she won't vex you again, the sly polecat ! Ye know
that stream atween here an' Bill Dairyman's hut, Janet?
Now the ice is thick, us crosses straight over that instead o'
going round by the bridge. There's quite a path worn i' the
snow across it."
" An' what's that to me, mooncalf? "
" Don't 'ee now, Janet ! don't 'ee flurry 'un, an' I'll tell ye.
They went over that way going out, an' well the ice bore
them ; but it ain't so thick but a saw has cut it through in two
places since then ; an' the water's mortal deep below. Felice
'il sleep sound enough to-night, once she steps on that bit of
ice, with the sly, mincing foot of her, Janet girl."
u And Tom! — Tom ? " she had leapt up like a panther, and
was clutching his arm tightly.
" Let go. Tom's safe enough," he answered, with a surly
frown. " Master's sent him to La Garaye this evening, so
Felice were to come home alone. I heard them settle it
all. Eh, trust me not to hurt your man if I wanted thanks
from you," and he laughed savagely.
Janet thrust him from her, — flung him off" as you would
a snake.
"An' you'd hurt the thing he loves!" she cried fiercely,
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80 St. . James's Magazine.
" for me-;w, who weren't fit for the likes o' him anyhow ;
an' wouldn't grieve him, dear heart!— no, not for all the
Lizzies in the world. You villain! didn't you know I
wouldn't ha* touched her, for his sake, if my heart broke
wif chokin' it. An' she may be there now ! "
Without another word, without a moment's pause, she
sprang from him and rushed out of the kitchen, and across
the waste of bleak trodden snow-fields in the direction of
the stream. I saw a black figure skim past the parlour
window, dimly outlined against grey sky and white drifting
waste ; and wondered vaguely who it could be. Not Janet,
surely ! — Janet barely risen from a sick bed, and with only
a ragged shawl over her cotton gown.
Tom Carter had not gone to La Garaye after all. Gal-
lantry prevailed over, business, and he coolly disobeyed me
and turned back with Felice. They were talking and laughing
in lovers' fashion as they came up to the path across the ice-
bound stream ; but the talk ceased suddenly, and the laughter
changed into a startled cry ; for where the path had been, a
square pool of water, dark and sullen, leapt up to meet their
gaze, and dashed the fragments of ice, which so lately had
covered it from view, against the frozen bank.
" Good heavens ! who has done this ? " cried Tom, and
tlien he stopped, for crouched in a dark heap upon the
snowy bank lay a stiff, silent figure, one arm still dangling
over the edge. Stooping down to it, he uttered a sharp
exclamation —
" Janet ! Is it possible ? "
She was speechless then, but she looked up in his face
with a smile, and tried to point to the hole. He lifted her in
his arms, and carried her home, Felice following in silence ;
but Janet's last escapade was over, and life was already
fast drifting into eternity. Before midnight, however, she
opened her black eyes* once, and tried to mutter something.
Emily, who was leaning over her, bent her head nearer.
" Where is he ? " Janet said. " Sam had cut it through ;
but I broke it in, an' Liz will see the hole now, an* not step
on it. . . . She ain't worth saving; but . . . fie likes hen
And with a faint smile of pity for his taste, Janet turned her
head aside and died.
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" GRGWETH DOWN LIKE A TOADSTOOL."
SL SDometftic Corned.
By LUCIUS BROUGHTON,
AUTHOR OF "A DAY WITH A BABY," "HOW HE WON HE I," ETC.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE STORM.
CANNOT understand why our ancestor Noah was
so particularly commanded to set a door in the
side of the Ark. The natural entrance of a
building is the front. Neither am I aware of any
great architectural structure that boasts a side portal for its
principal door.
The Rabbins, who spent most of their time in the elucida-
tion of such mysteries as the above, never found out a satis-
factory reason. Poetically speaking, a door in front is as
good as one behind, but certainly if we had built the A~k we
should have kept the side door as a servants' entrance.
Possibly some of the animals may have been considered as
servants. The dormouse would assuredly have fallen asieep in
the way if he had been obliged to go round to the front ; and
indeed if Noah were a sensible man, as his conduct in the dove
and raven matter indicates, he in all probability put the whole
cargo in by the roof, as we do nowadays in toy imitations of
the first specimen of naval architecture. By the way, I should
like to know if Mr. Plimsoll would have considered Noah's
ark seaworthy, or requested the stork to introduce a new bill
upon the subject in his leg-islative council.
Now, friend Noah did as he was told, but his descendant
in the direct male line, the architect of Wimerton Castle, did
not trouble himself about a door at all. He simply left a
hole, and through that hole we enter the courtyard.
VOL- L Digitized by Gfoogk
82 St. James's Magazine.
In ancient days this said hole may have been closed by a
gate, but if so the structure has long since become a matter
of uncertainty. The walls are firm and erect, but all traces of
doors, bolts, and hinges have entirely disappeared. A few
feet of mossy ground, dotted here and there with ferns and
prickly thistles, have to be crossed, and then we are at the
ruins of the castle itself.
Here we pause, and call a council of war, as if we were
about to storm the ruins. Before us the towers rise grey
and solemn, lit with the sunlight that now has a flush of
anger in it, as the rays fall from under the gathering clouds.
"I vote we separate," suggests Kate, "and lose ourselves
among the ruins. It will be such fun."
" I can't say I see it," replies Mr. Weston.
" Oh yes, let us do so, by all means," says Mary, with a
significant glance at the last speaker which neither escapes
him nor me.
Mr. Weston says nothing, however, and I, turning to
Laura, observe quietly,
" If you do not mind wandering alone, go, — only take care
of the stones and holes. I will keep Amy with me, Kate, and
my shout shall be the signal for gathering, eh ! agreed ;
come, disperse."
The various members of our party enter upon the plan with
spirit. There are many ways of getting into the ruins- —
doorwfiys, windows, posterns, and entrances to winding stair-
cases. The ruins are very extensive, and there is not much
difficulty in losing oneself. I and Amy plunge into a door
and traverse several rooms without obstruction, and we arrive
at length in a vaulted chamber. The others are scattered
abroad, and Amy and I look up with some amazement at
the sky visible through an embrasure. It is perfectly red,
and the breast of a dark cloud glows like a hot sheet of
copper.
" Amy," I say, " we are going to have a severe thunder-
storm. You are not afraid, are you ? "
" Afraid, Reggy ? — not I. Thunder is only God's voice
speaking to the hills, and telling them to be ready for the
coming shower."
" A pretty idea, Miss Amy. Who told you that ? "
" I read it, Reg, and I believe it. Listen ! "
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" Groiveth down like a Toadstool." 83
As she speaks, a low muttering sound like the growl of an
angry bear reaches our ears.
" We had better not remain here. We may be able to get
home before the storm breaks," say I, running across, the
room to a door, through which I fancy lies the quickest way
out.
As I reach this door, however, I hear voices. I pause, and
motion to Amy to be quiet.
I fancy the persons speaking are Mary and Mr. Weston.
Curiosity in this matter, as irresistible an impulse with mc as
with any old maid in existence, impels me to stop and listen.
Amy, usually inclined to silence, does not disturb me, but sits
down on a stone in a spot from which she can gaze at the
approaching storm. This is the conversation I overhear, the
first speakers voice being that of a woman.
* Mr. Weston, I must speak to you now we are alone."
Recognizing the voice, I peep through the wall, and see as
well as hear.
" Miss St. John, I am delighted to have the pleasure of an
interview with you, especially in such a picturesque spot as
this old castle."
" Don't ' Miss St. John* me. I never was more surprised in
my life than to meet you here to-day. What are you doing
hanging about this place ? "
("" Oh dear ! ain't he catching it ! " think I.)
" If you will be a little less violent, my dear young lady, I
will tell you, — if you don't know already that I came down
here for a little fishing."
"And does — I mean, do they at home know where you
are ? "
" My much-respected parents do, I believe ; and your people,
it would appear, do not, or there would have been no reason
for your surprise."
"Don't resort to- any subterfuge. I don't believe anybody
knows you are here ; and if, as you pretend, you want fishing,
what brought you up to Mr. Thompson's this afternoon ? "
11 Providence intended I should meet you."
"I am not sorry that I was there, though. Perhaps you
will tell me why you appeared not to know me."
"I did not. Excuse me, you yourself shrank from the
recognition I intended."
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84 Si. James's Magazine.
"Anything else ? I will be frank with you. You are not
down here for any good, and I wish you would go."
" Perch£, my child.,,
" I don't want any nonsense ; and, thank God, I am not
your child. Do you think I have no eyes ? "
" No one who has ever had the pleasure of being in yo ur
presence can doubt that fact. You have eyes — and uncom-
monly brilliant ones, Miss St. John." (How provokingly cool
he is, to be sure !)
" And Miss Thompson,— I suppose her eyes are brilliant,
too?"
" Well now, real^ Mary, don't you think Miss Thompson
an uncommon nice-looking girl ? "
" Why didn't you have the manliness to speak the truth at
once, Ralph ? Do you think I don't see that you are trying
to fascinate and flirt with that little girl ? I am thoroughly
ashamed of you, indeed I am, and I'll tell "
But who she was going to tell I do not hear, for a few spots
of rain falling among the ruins knock some plaster into my
eye, and I am obliged to withdraw my head and use a hand-
kerchief to remove the troublesome particle. When the opera-
tion is over, I hear the following fragments of conversation.
" She is only a child," says the male voice.
" Child or not, you are none. Suppose, suppose now that
you saw the girl you love walking with a good-looking young
man, who was doing his best to fascinate her — what would
you think ?"
" Think ? — that she was enjoying herself."
" And you have no consideration for either the girl or your
own self-respect ? What right have you here at all ? As for
fishing, that is all moonshine."
" Suppose I am here for air and exercise ?"
" Go to Margate."
" You might as well say go to Bath or Jericho at once."
"Make no mistake. I will do what I said if you insist on
remaining and fooling with that girl. It isn't only on that
account, but for her sake. I like Kate Thompson, and I
object to your amusing yourself at her expense. I will — I
will tell — I mean it."
What she will tell is quite a mystery to me at present.
"What do you want me to do ?"
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"Grovueth down like a Toadstool" 85
" Return to your business/'
" But this may lead to business."
" Nonsense ! I know more about the man's affairs than
you do. You will not be advanced in the way you think, if
indeed you do think of it."
" Really, Mary, I am telling you the truth."
" Mr. Weston, I have said all I mean to say. Do what
you like, but I warn you, don't defy me. It will not be to
your advantage in any way to quarrel with me."
"An amiable " (something I fail to catch).
" Amiable or not, I am resolved. Oh my ! "
The last exclamation is apparently called forth by a vivid
flash of lightning.
The persons move from their position. I think it time to
summon the wanderers. I climb up an old staircase, and
mount a round tower which commands a view of the castle
yard and ruins generally. Standing on the top of this, I
wave my hat and shout aloud.
Amy is still sitting on her stone. The child is as quiet as
a mouse. I can see her from my elevated stand through a
large gap in the stonework. I shout again, and am answered
by a clear shrill voice. It is Kate's. She soon finds her way to
the rendezvous, and after her comes Laura, who has not much
relished wandering alone, or is glad to be with us again.
I descend and join them.
" We only want Mary and Mr. Weston," says Laura ; " and
I wonder where they are."
. I turn aside to prevent laughing. My sister answers
Laura.
" Mary, come in this direction. As for Mr. Weston, he said
he would follow me ; but I would not let him, so perhaps he
has wandered downstairs to look at the dungeons. Oh, how
grand ! "
At that moment a fearful flash of forked lightning lit up the
sky, and the next the whole heavens were in a blaze.
The storm bursts overhead with terrible fury. The entire
sky is overspread by one vast cloud. In the east it is dark
and threatening ; to the west the appearance is of a copper
hue, and small clouds detached and raised upon the others
indicate the presence of much electricity. The air is heavy
and murky* and a few spots of rain fall at intervals. Above
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86 5/. Janus s Magazine.
our heads stand out the grey walls of the ruin, here and there
relieved by a branch of ivy or a fluttering piece of feathery
groundsel Black is the sky above the walls, and heavy and
dull the appearance of the air around us.
The flash to which Kate called our attention is apparently
the signal for the commencement of the tempest. Up from
the horizon, as if spouted by a dragon with fiery nostrils,
burst a succession of lightning flashes, beaming over the
whole sky, splitting the clouds in pieces, darting across the
black masses, and followed by peal after peal of deafening
thunder. The roar echoes wildly among the old ruins, and
almost stuns us with the sound of artillery in full action.
Like the smoke following the flash from the cannon's mouth
comes a deluge of rain out of the pitchy sky. It might be
ink — it looks so black in falling. (What fun if the clouds
rained ink for a change, eh ?) We dislike a wetting of water
quite as much, and seek shelter beneath a projecting arch of
masonry which once formed the top of a mullioned window.
But this being but small protection against the heavy rainfall,
we leave it, and dive under two or three arches, reaching a
staircase in an old turret. In this we find safe and sufficient
shelter while the storm continues. We only get into a place
of safety just in time. The rain comes down like a deluge,
soaking the old. ruin and forming'delightful little puddles in
the courtyard and the open squares, where the roof for a long
time has been nothing but the broad sky, and occasionally the
wings of some huge bird on its way over the ruin.
Storms that are furious seldom last long, and in about half
an hour the sky clears.
We then sally -forth in search of Mary, but it is some time
before we discover her, sitting on a stone under one of the
archways, and looking like a sentinel placed to watch an
advancing foe.
Mr. Weston is not with her.
I leave the girls and go in search of him. I roam over all
the ruins, shouting his name. At length he answers. To my
astonishment, he is up on a fower the highest part of the castle,
and the only remnant of what was once the keep.
He joins me, says he has been watching the storm, and
then we meet the girls ; and leaving the castle behind us,
return home.
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"Growelh down like a Toadstool" 87
CHAPTER XIV.
a maiden's vengeance.
Are women by nature more vengeful that men ? Perhaps
not, as a rule, but certainly as an exception. There are things
that a woman never forgives, and woe to the man who offends
her in one of them !
In an unguarded moment a friend of mine alluded to the
age of a lady whose tender point lay in that direction. Un-
happy wretch ! he had better have trodden upon her corn, or
abused her best female friend. From that hour he was
doomed. She married him. Only those who have suffered
from the vindictiveness of a hostile wife can know what that
meant to him, poor fellow !
The lady, however, was a grown woman. In youth the
passions are often stronger, if less enduring, than at a later
period of life. Youth is hasty and quick to anger.
A little maiden, .by name Nellie, whom I have frequently
mentioned before as our only vegetable production, has spent
the time during which .we have been absent in nourishing
vengeance against myself and sister Kate for the offence of
taking Amy with us in lieu of her. She resolves to punish
us, but as yet there is no public prosecutor, so she had to
take the law into her own hands.,
Carrots being Jazy, and at the same time in this evil frame
of mind, has nourished her vexation, and resolves to visit her.
anger upon us, for what was quite unintentional misconduct
on our part. Her ideas of justice are not singular. The
laws of most countries frequently operate in the same way,
and, in the idea of many Christians, the laws of God, always.
Whether actuated by the desire of emulating either human or
divine justice I know not, but once resolved, no feelings of
remorse or compunction are likely to interfere with the
carrying out of the Avenger's plans, and her impatience^ for
our arrival becomes excessive.
Our walk home has not been so pleasant as it should have
been. The air is damp, and the grass and hedges wet. We
cannot pass without coming in. contact, more or less, with the
prevalent moisture, and there is no human being unsus-
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88 St. James's Magazine.
ceptible to the influence of humidity upon his constitution in
general, and his spirits in particular.
But there is another cause for our dulness in the taciturnity
of two of the party, namely, Mr. Weston and Kate. It is
true Mary, with a false manner almost amounting to an un-
natural excitement, talks away to me and Laura, with whom
she is walking, but neither of us answer save by short sen-
tences. Laura is to all appearances lost in thought ; and as
For me, the sky, now illumined by the setting sun, is so
beautiful, and Laura's face looks so charming in the waning
light, that all my attention is absorbed and between the two
objects of attraction.
Still, if we are dull, ther e has been no disagreement be-
tween any of our party. We all feel anxious for tea. To be
hungry is not a favourable state for lively conversation.
Carrots, bent upon evil, is awaiting our approach in front
of the house, but I see her afar off, and, prognosticating
mischief from an undefinable feeling of impending catas-
trophe, avoid her, and at my suggestion we pass round to
the back, and enter the house by the dining-room window.
Our tea is already on the table, and we are soon seated at
it Mr. Weston becomes sociable as the meal progresses, and
talks to Kate, who also relaxes over the teapot, I smile all
round, Laura looks jolly, and we are enjoying ourselves,
when Nellie, with an angry face, bursts into the room.
* Hulloa, Nell ! " say I, endeavouring to avert the threaten-
ing mischief by smiles and cheerfulness, "how have you been
amusing yourself? Come here, darling, and give your brother
a kiss."
But Nellie is not disposed to silence. She flies at me,
saying, " You are a nasty, disagreeable thing, Reggy ! and so
are you, Kate, to take Amy out and leave me alone all the
afternoon, — and I'll tell all about yesterday, that I will."
Kate and I exchange significant glances. She tries to
brazen it out thus :
" Shut up ! " she exclaims, with more force than elegance.
" You may do what you like, so long as you don't come
bothering here while we are at tea. Go ! "
But the vengeful one is not so inclined.
"Oh, you may look grand and talk big, sister Catherine
(this big name is never used except upon occasions of the
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"Groweth down like a Toadstool" 89
greatest anger), but I will not be treated like a baby. I'll
tell Miss Laura all about you."
This sounds ominous, but we have no time to procrastinate,
for the words have fallen on Laura and Mary's ears, and they
look from us to Carrots, and from Carrots to us, for some
explanation. I can't utter a word. My boots are so very
small, it is useless trying to sink into them ; and my too,
too solid flesh prevents any attempt at evaporation or
spiritual disappearance. I have been to Maskelyne and
Cooke's entertainment, but levitation extraordinary is beyond
me: I sit where I am, stare around, and await the next
movement on the part of our little vixen in silence.
Kate is meditating an assault, I can see, but her hands
are occupied with the teapot.
Nellie advances to Laura, and says,
44 Do you know, Miss Laura, it was all a sham yesterday, I
saw them do it. They "
" Will you be silent and leave the room ? " began Kate,
furiously : but the memory of the truth bursts in upon her
anger, and she finished with a peal of laughter, which she
endeavoured to check by stuffing her handkerchief into her
mouth.
Laura and Mary look at her in surprise, so does Mr.
Weston ; but Nellie, bent on vengeance, continues :
" Do you know what they did — Kate and Reggie ? They
went upstairs before you came, and changed clothes. I
know they did ; and they gave me sweets not to tell."
Having got out this accusation, Nell turns away, and
retires towards the window, ready to bolt through it if, as she
dreads, my anger prompts an attack upon her. She cannot
forego the pleasure of seeing the result of her conduct,
though she hangs her head, and blushes guiltily, as if any-
thing but satisfied with what she has done.
Meanwhile, notwithstanding Kate's laughter, Laura and
Mary look very serious, and the former turns to me and
demands imperiously if this is true.
I look at Mary, and am about to speak, when Kate re-
covers her equanimity, and begins for me :
" Laura and Mary, you are a couple of clever girls. Just
as if we could take you in by dressing up." *
" How absurd ! " chimes in Mr. Weston.
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go Si. Jameis Magazine.
But Laura, remembering, probably,. her own doubts on the
previous day, does not see it in .the. same light .
"I think, Miss Thompson, thexhild has^.told the troth/'
she says, sternly. "I cannot see what your object was in
practising this deception upoa us,j and a& , for you, sir/'
looking reproachfully at me, " your conduct is beyond any-
thing I ever heard"
" Really, Miss Laura, I — " commences this unfortunate
being ; but feeling I shall only make matters worse, I stop
short there and bite a bun.
Kate, ready Kate, (how clever these womea are !) comes to
the rescue.
"Wel^if you like to believe Nellie's nonsense^ I don't see
there is much harm done. We only wanted to have some
fun, and if I did make love to you for my brother, it was
because he felt too. bashful to do it himself; and you can't
say I did not make a good and most persuasive lover."
" I do not see it at all. You and your brother haye grossly
outraged us both," says Mary, with flashing eye. " Why, I
positively let him kiss me, thinking it was you."
" I never was so treated in my life," begins Laura, following
suit; but she breaks down, and tears gather in the most
beautiful of eyes..
I can't: say a word ; but the inost- amusing pact- of the
scene is. with. Mr. Weston, who looks ?at KateV very serious
visage, and laughs,— to himself of course^but with - a full
sense of the enjoyment of the idea.
" I shall —" but Mary really don't know what she can do ;
so continues, " I will never come nea* this house again;
Come along, Laura, and we will write and tell Mrs. Thomp-
son how her children have treated us in her absence. Miss
Thompson, I am surprised- at you. If you were only sorry,,
now."
" Why should she be sorry ? " interpose* Westonin defence
of his favourite. " It was only an innocent joke, I am sure,
with locked doors, and no strangers present, — I feel assured of
it"
"Please not to interfere, sir/' she returns coldly; "Come*
Laura, let us leave them."
But at this moment, as. if horrors enough had not been
perpetrated, who should fenter the room but Dom and his
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"Groivetk down like a Toadstool" 91
Dragon arm-in-arm, — not like St. George and his ; but the
advent of our parents is as terrible to us as was the appear-
ance of, the dread venemous, griffin to the Christian chain**
pion.
Laura, aboat to rise, remains fixed to her seat I press
close to feci, and try to find words, but at the momentcaanot
Kate rises, takes Mary by the hand ; and looks at her im-
ploringly, while the mother, bowing to Mr; Weston, ^breaks out
with, " Reginald — Kate, what is the matter ? What is all this
confusion about ? "
Ere even the ready Kate can answer, Mary flies to 1 Mrs.
Thompson, ami addresses: her.
" Why, Mrs. Thompson,- your young people kindly amused
themselves yesterday by making fools of us. Kate and Mr.
Thompson changed clothes and deceived us entirely."
To see my mother's eyes grow big, and then her brow
contract with an angry frown as she listens to this denunci-
ation of our conduct, is but what I expected. She looks at
Kate as if she would annihilate her, and at me as. if I were
already fully annihilated ; and indeed. I feel very much as if
I were, or should like to be.
u Disgraceful ! " she breaks forth in a tone of anger ; and
turning to her husband, who catching Weston's eye had
begun to smile in his usual good-tempered way, she adds,
" Mr. Thompson what do you think of this, behaviour for
ladies and gentlemen, the children of respectable parents ? I
am ashamed — I am shocked ! My children would neve* have
been guilty of such wickedness. I am horrified at you, Kate,
lam!"
But Kate cuts her short.
" Really, mamma, it is useless losing your temper before
strangers," with a glance at Mr. Westoni u We only did it in
fun, and meant no harm ; besides, it is done, and can't be
undone, you know, — so there." And she concluded by facing
her mother determinedly.
I find courage to. whisper softly in Laura's ear.
" Don't be angry with me, dear. Everything is fair in love.
And I was. so bashful, I asked Kate to win you for me."
"Indeed!" she answers in a low voice, and scrutinizing me
closely.
* Indeed, yes ; and I do so love you,.Laura I " I reply.
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92 St. Jameses Magazine.
Which is true in part, for since Mary's conduct with Mr.
Weston has been present to my mind, I have suddenly taken
a disgust to her as a deceptive creature, and, with boyish
fickleness, immediately turn to the other charmer beside me
to whom I am betrothed — even if by proxy. I therefore
return Laura's look with interest, and add a confirming pres-
sure of the band.
In her way, though Laura has discovered the fraud, she
likes me, and believes. However placid a girl is as a rule,
she rises in defence of the man she loves, apd consequently
her little pleading voice speaks in my defence.
" Mrs, Thompson, if you please, I didn't mind it at all. It
was only done in fun, I am sure, and among ourselves there
could be no harm,"
The indignation that flashes from Mary's eyes is magnifi-
cent, but Laura's dark brown orbs reply so mildly, yet firmly,
that she does not speak against her.
Partly mollified, the mother answers, —
"My dear Miss Montstephen, I am ashamed that they
should have behaved so badly to you, but since you forgive
them, I will let it pass at present How is your darling
mother to-day ? "
So with the inquiry after Mrs. Montstephen's health, the
storm blow overs, and I and Laura are as good if not better
friends than before. Kate and Mr. Weston then clamour for
some music ; and Mary, though very angry still, consents to
play a song for Laura to sing.
She has a very sweet voice, and Mary plays well. We are
delighted with the song, and when it is finished sit down in
a circle and pass the evening away by telling stories, asking
riddles, and other juvenile amusements. Carrots asks to join,
but we punish her by exclusion ; and the Dragon takes her to
bed, and goes herself to look after the other children.
Papa sits down with us, and shows himself as big a baby as
any of us in heart. He even consents to join in " blind-man's
buff," over which game we have a capital romp ; and when
nobody is looking, I will confess I got more than a romp.
How sweet Laura's lips are ! What it is to win a young and
a soft- lipped woman ! Oh, angels, I pity ye if ye have none
such in heaven.
The evening at length expires ; a carriage comes for the
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" Growth down like a Toadstool" 93
young ladies ; Mr. Weston walks away, and we retire to rest,
but not before I and Kate have held a long consultation as to
the best way of avoiding the scolding and punishment which
we feel to be the inevitable burden of the morrow.
CHAPTER XV.
A CHANGE IK OUR PROSPECTS.
The following morning we come down a little earlier than
usual, and enter the breakfast-room in a state of trepidation,
for we have an idea that the Dragon will rise betimes for the
pleasure of scolding us — a thing which she has been known
to do before. We are, however, disappointed, and not dis-
agreeably so.
We sit down to breakfast, and resolutely avoid all Nellies
peaceful overtures. The fact is, like many other persons, she
has experienced the bitterness of revenge, and would only be
too glad to undo the evil she has worked. We mean to
punish her, and I think our plan of keeping silence against
her succeeds, for she looks miserable enough.
Presently Dom comes in, and receives hearty kisses all
round. " I say, Guv," is my salutation, tl was the Dra — I
mean the mother very savage last night ? "
"Reginald!" begins my father, sternly; but unable to
sustain the tone, he concludes, "you are wild, boy. I am
angry with you both, but your mother will not scold you to-
day. I have made up my mind about something.,,
" Oh, what is it ? " exclaims Kate eagerly. She knows by
long experience that papa's propositidns are always very
acceptable to us.
tl I shan't tell you till your mother comes down, and the
post is in. I expect an important letter, Reg ; run and see
if the postman is coming."
" Yes, Guv," and off I go.
Returning in two minutes with several letters, I find the
Dragon down, and my dear old father is looking at me as
placidly as possible, though I held in my hands a letter full
of the most important communications to him. What a
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94 Sf. James1 s Magazine.
wonderful smile he has, and how contented and happy he
looks notwithstanding the frown^ on the face beside him. I
lay the letters by his side, and he munches away at his toast
for some time before he opens them.
" Mother, how are you ?" say I to her, offering my face to
be kissed, which salute is given very much after the manner
of a surgeon performing a delicate operation.
" I am pretty well this morning," she answers slowly, and
apparently refrains from adding something she would have
liked to say.
My father smiles upon her as if she had done something
obedient to his desires, for which he wished to thank her;
and so she has done. His voice has been pleading our cause
successfully ; and now he opens the important-looking letter,
reads it through, and smiles again. Then he says, very
gently,
" My dear Elise, is there anything you would like to do
very particularly ? "
She gazes at him a moment and asks " Why ? "
" Because I want to know. I don't mean only to-day or
to-morrow, but anything of importance fcr the ftititre."
"Ah, you know what I should like very well, but it is no
use wishing for it." ,
" I ask because I wish to grant, Elsie."
" Well, then, take a house in London, furnish it at Jackson
and Graham's, start a carriage and pair, and buy a box at
the Opera."
" It shall be done," he answers softly.
" Nonsense, John ! "
" No nonsense. Now wait. Kate, what would you* like ? "
" Oh, Kate," exclaimed I, " ask for something better than
a Rose d la Beauty. Have a horse, or a donkey, or a set of
Scott's novels."
" Or a new set of croquet," suggests Nellie.
"Ask him to buy a Macaulay's History of England," whis-
pers Amy.
" A rocking-horse," says Ben.
" No, Kate, have something useful — a diamond necklace or
a sapphire brooch," is my second piece of advice.
Being unasked, like most of its kind it remains untaken,
and Kate replies to her father gently,
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"Growetk down like a Toadstool" 95
" I do not want anything at present, papa, thank you. I
will ask you when I do, if I may."
M Certainly, jny dear. Now,* Mr. Reginald, eldest son *nd
heir of John Thompson, Esq., what is there for which thy
soul longeth ? "
•• Will it run to anything heavy, Governor ? "
*I don't know what you call ' heavy/" replies he with a
smile ; " but anything: in reason I can stand for you."
I look at Kate, and hesitate; then at the Dragon, and
burst out,
w Well, papa, if you mean to come do^rn handsome, I
should like to travel a bit on the Continent."
u Travel at your age 1 " exclaims the mother, astonished.
" My dear Elise, I think the boy is right, and he shall seethe
world. Reginald, you shall have your^wish as soon as I can
arrange matters. And now for the others. Nell shall have a
new doll— a smart one. Amy wants *t History of England, and
Bennie a rocking-horse, and baby a rattle ; and you, my love,"
looking dragonwards, "a London home. Cxest tme affaire
fini, my dears."
" What does this mean, John ? " asks the mother in words,
and all of us in shy looks.
* It means, my love, that I am a fool, and that I have made
more money than I quite know what to do with," he says
very quietly.
Elise looks at him, and then puts her arms" round his neck
with a sudden impulse.
" My dear John, is this true ? Oh, I am so delighted ! "
I believe her. The advent of an angel from heaven would
not have been more welcome to my mother, nor, for the
matter of that, to any worldly woman, than the pros-
perity the arrival of which my father takes so quietly. With
the natural curiosity of her sex, she presses to know the
extent of the good fortune that has thus so suddenly befallen
us.
** Not a million, my love," he says, " nor yet a half a million,
but enough to make you and I and the children comfortable
for the future ; " and the dear father goes on to explain that a
heavy business matter in which a large capital was embarked
has suddenly been brought to a close with an immense profit
to him, and that he has more than enough to gratify his
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96 Si. Jameses Magazine.
wife's and our fancies, and live in the best style for the
future.
We are all delighted with the prospect— myself especially
so.
"How awfully jolly, Kate! Only fancy, travelling on the
Continent ! — it's what I call galuptious ! "
"You need not use such words, Mr. Reginald," says the
Dragon ; " and I hope if you do travel your manners will be
improved by the company with which you come in contact
with abroad."
"Doubtless, beloved mother. Please, must I still marry
Laura the dowered one, or will you get me out of it ? Free-
dom is precious at my time of life."
" Don't talk so before the children, if you please. I don't
know, I am sure, what your relations are with Miss Mont-
stephen, and I am not going to interfere at all for the future,
so you may do as you like."
" Oh ! but," puts in Carrots, " you should have seen them
kissing yesterday, — I did."
" True, Carrots ! " say I, reddening.
"Quits!" she answers brazenly; "you kissed her lots of
times, and what's more she liked it."
"You have a very forward tongue, miss," says papa, "and if
you talk so much can't help making mischief," after which
rebuke the child is silent.
" I did not know that you had gone as far as that insinua-
tion would seem to indicate," says the Dragon.
" Of course, you never know anything. But I don't believe
it will matter ; I shall go abroad, and when I come back she
will have forgotten me : all women are alike."
" Indeed," says Kate sharply. " Please to remember I am
present, and I will not have my sex abused by you or any one
else, I tell you."
" A champion for woman's rights, — hear, hear ! " I say.
" Now children, behave," laughingly interposes the father.
" I am going to London, to-day, and shall expect you to take
special care of your mother while I am away. No tricks,
please, or romps, like the day before yesterday."
" Yes," says the mother, " I have refrained from speaking
about that disgraceful conduct because I thought that the>
shame of the thing would be punishment enough, but I can-
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"Groweth down like a Toadstool" 97
not help saying that what you did was very improper, to say
the least of it."
" And shall not occur again," Kate replies.
" Amen," add I.
And then papa rises, and I drive with him to the railway
station, discussing my travels and the consequences that will
be necessitated thereby.
It is pleasant bowling along the fresh country lanes, now
all green, and freed from the dust that covered them. The
thunder shower of the previous evening has enlightened all
nature. Trees and hedges seem born to new life ; grass is
growing beneath one's sight ; the birds are about on sprig and
in hedge ; and up aloft in the sky is the cheerful lark, singing
all day long the song of the love of the sunshine. The cattle
are enjoying their breakfast, or what seems an equal pleasure
to them with that of eating, ruminating. The little river,
when we pass it, looks fuller and fresher than it has done for
days, and wafts over our faces a breath of pure air as we cross
the bridge.
I leave my father at the station, having seen him safely into
a carriage, and return to the house. I find Kate lazying on a
. bench (the grass is still damp), and down I sit plump beside
her. Round her neck go my arms, and I give her a good
hug and a couple of kisses, by way of giving vent to my high
spirits.
" Ain't this awfully jolly,little Kate ? I am going away ; and
youll have silk dresses, and diamond rings, and a horse to
ride, and lots of books, — oh my ! you will be a fine lady now.
Kate, well never be different to what we have been — we're
alone dear little sis ! "
" Reginald," she answers, putting her arm in mine affection-
ately, "lam not sure that money means happiness. I felt a
sudden joy when papa first said it, but now I don't seem to
care a bit ; besides, you are going away, and I shall be so
dull in a big house."
" Nonsense, womany, youll get used to it ; besides, when
you are out, and drive in a carriage, and dress well, everybody
will be running after 'that pretty Miss Thompson.' Oh, I
know the world, my child, though I am only just past eigh-
teen." And I smile with a sense of inward satisfaction at my
extensive knowledge upon these important points.
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§8 5/. James's Magazine.
" Ah, yes, Reggie, perhaps I shall have some attention paid
to me, but it will not be on my own account ; ami then being
rich, and living in a grand house, must be very troublesome.
Oh dear ! I don't think I shall care about it at all without
you."
* Very flattering to me, my dear sister, no doubt, but you
will learn to think differently. Now look here, to come to
business. I must tell Laura that I am going away, and ask
ker to write to me, eh ? "
u And promise to do the same, sir. Reg, I think you had
better tell her the whole thing was nonsense, got up by me
for a frolic, and on your bended knees implore her to forgive
and forget the kisses. You will have other thoughts in your
bead when you come back, my knowing brother."
" I shall not change to you, Kate, whatever happens. I
have hardly the courage to face Laura, but if it must be done,
the sooner the better, as the man said when about to kick his
grandmother out of her bed."
" Don't, Reg ; go and do your duty at once, and if the scene
is very affecting, think of the pain that will be ours when we
part"
She speaks half in earnest, half in jest, but my heart fails
me at the idea. I catch my sister in my arms and kiss her
fondly, ere I start off to Roseneath to do " my duty."
CHAPTER XVI.
DOING "MY DUTY.'
GREAT is usually the agitation experienced by the most daring
of mankind when going forth to solicit the hand of a fair
bride, even though he feels the battle has already been fought,
and he has only to present himself at the gates of the city he
has conquered and enter : what, then, must be the trepidation
of him who goes to break off with his beloved ? Bah ! I am
a fooL If I go oil moralising in this way on every possible
and as some may think, impossible occasion my story will
grow as long as your arm ; of course, whether that is too long
or not depends very much upon the exact dimensions of your
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"Groweth down like a Toadstool" 99
arm ; — but certainly my story is getting pro9y, so never mind
morals, and come along incidents. Here goes for one.
I have dressed with unusual care, and look' like it. My
boots are brilliant with varnish, my hat beaming with brush-
ing, and my gloves immaculate as the kid from whose skin
they are supposed to have been made. I have seen by my
reflection in the glass — about the only time I ever do reflect
— that I am not untidy, and that satisfies me; but Kate
asserts that I am dressed with unusual care, and I suppose
she speaks the truth. The afternoon is hot enough for any-
thing or nothing. The sun seems to have been engaged by
some celebrated biscuit-baking manufactory, and having done
all his work on legitimate articles, to be trying his hand at
baking the stones. The grass is rapidly losing the moisture
of the thunder shower, and the flowers hang their heads away
from the blaze of the noontide heat. It is no use waiting for
it to get cooler ; besides, I rather like a hot sun ; so off I set
in the trap of a friend of mine, which he often places at my
disposal when he goes to London for the day.
Roseneath rises from embowering oaks and beaches in the
proper way. It is as necessary to the existence of a country
house that it should live midst umbrageous foliage as for a
dog to have a tail. The comparison is far-fetched, but it was-
the tail of my grand Newfoundland which called it forth.
Roseneath looks particularly beautiful this afternoon ; • and
after giving my pony and trap into the charge of the stable-
man, I find my way round to the lawn, intent on entering
unseen, and coming upon the fair Laura by surprise. She,
all unconscious of the advent of her boy-lover, is reclining
luxuriously on a sofa at the window of the drawing-room,
and is quite unconscious of my approach. I steal quietly
towards her meditaing a surprise, but she anticipates me, and
turns her head round with a slight start.
"Whoever expected to see you to-day, Mr. Thompson ?"
she begins.
u I hardly knew I expected to see myself here, Laura ; but
then I never know what I am going to do. The fact is, I
came to see you." And I enter the room without waiting for
an invitation, and seat myself close to the sofa on which she
has been reposing so comfortably.
li Where is Mary ?" I ask anxiously, but not with an anxiety
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ICO Si. James's Magazine.
which disquiets my fair Laura, for she is either too confident
in her own attractions, or too indifferent to mine, to care
whether I honour Mary with my attentions or not.
41 She has just gone as far as the bottom of the garden," she
says gently, " and will be back in a moment."
" And your mamma ?"
" Mamma is lying down with a headache."
After which a pause ensues. We both look and feel un-
commonly foolish — at least I do, and I imagine Laura does
the same. We seem to have nothing more to say. I know
what I want to express, but Laura Montstephen is wholly
oblivious to the necessities of my situation, and makes no
effort to assist me, which she might very well do without
hurting herself. Young men will be shy. At last I break
the silence with a suggestive " Humph !"
" You did not send your sister to-day in your place ? " she
says, " because it answered too well the other day. Is that
the reason ?"
" My dear Miss Laura, I have come to tell you some very
important news this afternoon, and I hope you will be pleased
with it."
" Give me an opportunity of judging. You are slow this
afternoon, Reginald."
" I know it. I am — I often am, though that mother of
mine says I am too fast whenever I happen to run counter
to her desires, though I do so in perfect innocence, I assure
you," I reply.
"Well, — what is the news? Are you to go to school
again ?"
'• Not quite as bad as that, but something like it Will
you not forget me in two long years ?" I say tenderly.
" Is that all ?— going away for two years ? It will do you
good, I think. And where are you going to ?"
"Certainly you take the news rather coolly, Miss Laura!"
" Well, what did you expect me to do ? But I am sorry
you are going, if it makes you unhappy. Where are you
going, and when will you be back?" she asks, without the
least shade of feeling in her voice.
" I am going to travel for the benefit of my health and
education, which latter you will admit has been neglected
and I shall be away about two years, I think."
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"Growth down like a Toadstool" ioi
" Two years ! Why we irfay all be dead and buried before
then; and pray, did you not think fit to consult me before
you made your arrangements ?"
" I confess the thought did enter my mind, but it immedi-
ately seemed to me that you would be glad to get rid of me
for a little, and then "
"What?"
" I was so glad to think of rushing about the Continent
alone, and wherever I liked, that I at once closed with the
offer made me, and resolved to accept it and start before a
chance occurred of its being withdrawn," say I, feeling that
really if there is anything between us it was hardly kind of
. me to be so delighted at the prospect of two years' absence
from her dear side.
But she is rather delighted than otherwise, and expresses
herself thus, without much consideration for my feelings.
"Go by all means, Reginald, and take care to let your
whiskers grow before you come back."
"And when I do return will you receive me as before, and
may I think of you while I am away ? " say I tenderly.
" Certainly you may, and write if you like, and remember
me always ; but you will not. However, go, and God bless
you." And she does something very like wipe away a tear —
a real tear. Surely she does like me, and I am a brute to
think because I am a boy I am at liberty to treat the girl's
affections with indifference, as I am doing now. But then
she is so very cold at times. I repent in my innermost soul,
though where that is I do not exactly know. I draw nearer
to her, I take her hand in mine, and I look up into her eyes
as if I meant it, and so I do at the time. She lets me take
her hand, and seems to have no objection to the regard,
though it is a little fervent We sit for a moment, and then
I say, " If you do not wish it, I will stop with you. I came
to-day to tell you I thought what I had said to you already
was nonsense ; but when I sit by your side I do not feel like
a boy, but like a man ; and I know you are good, and any one
may be proud of yo»r favour. I wish I were more worthy of
it, but I will think of you and try to become better."
Sentimental I am getting, am I not ? This is not a bad
beginning for a boy of my age. I shall do in time, so I feel ;
and taking her hand, I raise it to my lips, and she makes
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102 5/. James's Magazine.
no objection, but lets me keep "possession of the prehensile
organ.
At length she speaks her mind.
• "We are both very young for courtship, Mr. Reginald.
Remain as you are now until your return, and I shall not
alter either ; but you will change, I believe. If you do not,
write to me occasionally to tell me how you are getting on."
What can I say but that I will ? And then suddenly catch-
ing a sight of Mary St John's face coming round the corner
of a yew-tree hedge, I rise and appear as]if I had been talking
on nothing but the most ordinary topics, when the head of
the young lady advances towards the window near which we
are sitting. I am constrained to be very civil to Mary, and I
inform her of my projected departure. She does not suffer
herself to speak her real views upon the subject, but simply
says she hopes I shall enjoy myself, and that the trip will be
certain to do me good.
I leave soon after, and walk home to join Kate, feeling that
I have certainly made a bigger fool of myself than I had
done before, and sadly at a loss to know what I shall do when
the two years are out; but I console myself with that most
fallacious proverb, " Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,"
and as I near the garden I shy a stone at Kate, who sits on
a bench beneath a horse-chesnut tree, thinking either of my
intended departure or Mr; Weston and his fishing. And Kate
dreaming of— never mind what — receives my messenger of love,
and simply turns her head round to me ; but when she sees
who is her enemy, she first of all flushes up as if to join
battle, and then comes right at me and throws her arms
round my neck, while the tears rush into her eyes, and she
cannot speak.
Now I am not accustomed to this sort of thing from any-
body, and least of all from Kate ; consequently I feel very
much like a lord mayor with a white elephant — I don't know
what to do with her. I feel disposed to pitch Kate down on
the grass, grab at her chignon, pull off her hat, and roll her
over and over on the grass as a punishment, for this ebullition
can be nothing else but temper. Yet on second thoughts
I do nothing of the kind, but affectionately slobber her a bit,
and endeavour to ascertain what is the matter, and why she
has taken to crying.
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" Grovoeth down like a Toadstool"
103
She says it is the idea of my going away, and it makes her
sad. I am very sorry, but the parting must come, and the
sooner the better. Thereupon she turns round to me angrily,
says she quite agrees with me, and wants to know what I am
going to do with my " Toadstool."
" Ha ! ha ! " say I ; "it is growing, it is growing ; and before
I come back it shall be growing and blowing in proper style."
Somehow or other we never again refer to the subject before
I leave, and when I return I take down my pages from a dull
and dusty corner and resume the broken thread of my story
in this way.
{To be continued.)
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A Song of the South.
By LEONARD LLOYD.
HERE the foam flakes leap high on the billows
In the warring and wrestling of seas,
And mermaids on seaweed soft pillows
Are lulled by the voice of the breeze ;
Where the sun in his tropical splendour
Burns fierce as the hopes of our youth,
When love was a light strong and tender
And true as a fashioning truth ;
Where daily adown to the waters,
Which compass the islet and lave,
The feet of the sandalled South's daughters
Tread soft as the wash of a wave ;
Where dream that an English maid dreameth
Of beauty and bounty and bliss
No longer is shadow that seemeth,
But real as the passionate kiss
Her love in his longing imprinted
Last eve on love-lingering lips,
As red as a rosebud sun tinted,
And sweet as a honey-bee sips ;
Where branches are bent 'neath the burden
Of acerval blossom and fruit,
And ocean casts gems as a guerdon :
The sound of a lover's light lute
Was heard by the night as she listened
Crouched low in her dusky recess,
And her eyes with dew diamonds glistened
As calling the stars forth to bless
The youth who was singing her praises,
She woke a soft breeze from its rest
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A Song of the South. 105
To whisper, as upward he gazes,
And sings to his love in her nest,
To whisper a hope for his passion,
A hope cf a bountiful bliss,
When fate shall have found a fair fashion
To silence his suit with a kiss.
Darling in the moon's light lying,
Pure and white, and fair as she,
Listen to your lover's sighing !
Melancholy melody.
I am sighing, darling, dying,
All for thee, for thee !
As nearer in the twilight creeping
To her mate a pure white dove,
Ope the casement, Love, and peeping
Let me look upon my love.
Night is weeping, stars are keeping
Wakeful watch above.
Ope the casement ! ere there flushes
In the east faint light of dawn ;
Night will hide the mantling blushes
That of innocence are born.
Music gushes, nature hushes —
Leave me not forlorn !
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Shake Hands.
By JACOB SCOTT.
CHAPTER I.
!ELL — yes — I don't know," Penda Garbett says
with a smile ; " but I thought if you came at all
it would be on a wet day like this — a dull, drizzly
day — a day to be domestic in." And she resumes
the socks she is knitting.
There is a piquant air of half-smiling recognition in the easy,
quiet bow with which she has received her visitor Martin Dale,
a tall, red-bearded man, rather stout, with brown hair, and a
head already inclined to baldness. His keen blue humorous
eyes look as if nothing could mystify them.
"It seemed almost as if you recognised me," he says with
scarcely any preliminary, "when I told you our mutual friend
Mrs. Chaplin said I might introduce myself : she had no time
to say more : you remember the train was just going off as I
stepped in, I did not like to ask you then," he* adds in a tone
of inquiry, " for you would only vouchsafe me such very short
answers ? "
"Yes, I knew you directly," and a merry gleam passes
through her eyes.
" Indeed ! " his tone slightly caustic, " our friend Mrs. Chaplin
must possess unusual powers of description."
" She told me that I would be sure to know you," she replies
with a demure audacity that makes the corners of his mouth
go down with a sort of amusement ; " that you were like a
mixture of her husband and the Prince of Wales."
" And evidently you had no difficulty in verifying the like-
ness. Will you tell me now," changing his tone to a lighter
one, " why you thought I should be sure to select a wet day
for coming to call upon you ? " It is his turn to be audacious
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Shake Hands. 107
now : will she say that he would be more certain to find her
at home ?
"You implied that you had seen everything, and heard
everything, and knew everybody," says Penda, running on
with her words very rapidly; "most of your friends you
believed were out of town, and "
u And what ? " he asks with emphasis.
"And I thought only a wet day could make you fall back
upon remembering to come here."
Martin Dale, well versed in all the overtures of the fair sex,
steals a quiet, amused glance at his small, bright-eyed, frankly-
disposed acquaintance, nervously giving forth her remarks with
an air of piquant self-assertion.
" I am very glad I came," he returns after a pause, during
which he has been watching her fresh young face, and its
transient changes of colour, and he waits expectant of another
regardless answer.
" So am I ; we see so few people — mamma and I."
" Do you ?" his tone making her sensible of her doubtful
remark.
No reply from Penda this time, who takes a relief in de-
scribing the figure 8 with the point of her shoe ; and suddenly
becoming aware that he is attentively regarding this manoeuvre
of hers, she hastily alters her position, and he takes up the
conversation again.
"Do you know you were very punctilious when saying
goodbye ; you wouldn't shake hands ; and you observed the
same ceremonious bow when I entered just now. Do you
keep everybody at an invariable distance ?" his clear glance
seeming to steady the changing gleam with which her hazel
eyes regard him.
" You said you knew women so well, and "
"And you were determined I should not know you 'so
well.'"
" Perhaps ; but I knew," she exclaims hurriedly, speaking
in a little soft crescendo, " that I should never like you if you
spoke of women in that tone, and," raising her eyes with as
steady a glance as his own, " I thought that very likely our
acquaintance had better end with a bow."
" Don't you think," he suggests, while across her face comes
a blush of dismay, and a curious, half-troubled expression,
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108 Si. James's Magazine.
" that never is a long day — a long and weary day, as the poet
says. Wouldn't it be better to leave never alone ? "
Penda sits perfectly still, her fingers fidgeting nervously.
"What do you think ?" he urges, in a voice of persuasion,
and in so quiet a manner that Penda feels it is far too quiet to
be permitted.
" I have never," she says with a bright blush and an air of
rebuke, " answered so many questions in such a short time ;
and I think it would be better if you didn't ask me any more,
if you please."
CHAPTER II.
"Opponent, shake hands, — you must shake] hands," iterates
Martin Dale, having beaten Penda at Go-Bang by a double
three, "just to show that we are the best of friends," he begs
with laughing eyes, receiving with a pleasant maliciousness
the disdain with which his proffer is received.
" I see no reason — there has been no quarrel." She refuses,
making a little sage motion — a half-bridling movement — of
her head.
" Very well ; then I shall look upon your refusal as a
quarrel," he protests, with something like pique. He does
not quite understand her uncertain repressive manner that
peeps out at times, and he turns away to discuss the weather,
the late storms, and shipwrecks with Mrs. Garbett, who informs
him in turn of Whiteley's latest encroachment, and the rate
of charges in his new provision-shop.
" Don't you feel as if we had had a little quarrel ? " he says,
coming up to her again presently. " I wish you wotold. shake
hands," he repeats in a semi-ludicrous tone of voice that sets
Penda laughing and colouring, as she demurs.
"Well, but "
" Well, but" — imitating her; then seeing how firmly her lips
close together, he murmurs, " Pray forgive me," which acts
like an open sesame upon them.
" Mamma would wonder."
" Do you know I am beginning to wonder — there is nothing
like a novel sensation— when I shall see something in your
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Shake Hands. 109
face that I am waiting for. Do you know what it is?" he
asks, with a curious intonation that sends the hot blood
crimsoning over her face, till her cheeks seem to smart beneath
the sudden rush of feeling which brings it there.
" I do not think personalities are ever very pleasant," she
protests, bending a little closer over the tracery which she is
describing in an idle, capricious manner.
" There I disagree with you," he returns, in a tone that is
sober and serious. "No personalities ever sounded in my
ears so pleasantly as those I heard from you in my first visit
here."
And he watches, wondering what her next answer will be.
Will he learn what he wishes from it ? He fancies he discerns
a shade of doubt mingling with the little air of grave decision
with which she is evidently making up her mind to an
unusually disregardful answer.
" I can't very well explain what I mean ; but, just as you
say you have gone through all sorts of experiences till you
feel you can hardly imagine any new sort of one," she
explains, without noticing his contradictory frown, as if he
would like to interrupt her, " so I can't think — I have gone
through all the experiences I know of, and those I have read
of in books as well, and I can't think of," she repeats, with an
odd kind of despair, "the right, suitable sort of replies I
ought to make to all your — your ways of addressing me,"
she says, with some hesitation. " Our conversation began far
too easily the first day you came. It oughtn't indeed to go
on like — like this," she says, meeting his gaze so absently
and wistfully that it checks his eager, passionate expression.
"Tell me something more of what you feel," he urges, in a
quiet, subdued tone of voice.
" I think I have said quite as much as is necessary," she
observes, with an air of dignity that he finds rather comical
to judge by the way his mouth expresses his inclination to
smile.
"And you won't shake hands ?" he inquires again.
" When you bid me good-night," she replies with decision.
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CHAPTER III.
" Are those monosyllabic answers the commencement of your
new regime ? Why won't you " — coming near to where she
stands turning over the leaves of an album — " be just as we
were before — that and something more?" he solicits in a
deprecating, half-commanding way, as she moves away from
him to the other side of the bay window. He watches how
her hands press themselves uneasily together as he speaks,
and her eyes shine with a kind of defiant pleasure as she
encounters his keen inquiring glance.
* Do you think — we — really care — ? " she falters.
" Do you mean that I care about you, or that you care
about me ? " he asks, keenly observant of the wide-eyed con-
fusion which his half-mocking manner creates.
"No. I didn't mean either — I didn't mean anything," —
unable to parry his searching glance.
" I hope you do, — I like people to mean what they say —
and I thought you did," he returns in a tone of reproof — of
reproof that Penda finds perfectly unjustifiable.
"Do you mean to say," he rejoins sternly, making Penda's
dignity stand on end, "that you don't care about me, that
you don't know you do," he urges more gently, seeing what a
very different expression he has brought to her face from
what he wishes.
" Yes, I mean to say so — whether I do or not." She defies
him stoutly, embarrassed to desperation.
" Then I think it is very mean of you," he says, with a
smile at his play upon the word. ■
But Penda's face is completely turned away.
"Will you shake hands with me, Penda?" potting one
hand half round with a mute appeal till it touches hers.
— A little silence, which redoubles the pleasure with which
he listens for her whispered " Yes."
"As often as I like ?" drawing her nearer to him, the other
hand meeting its fellow and holding hers firmly.
"As often as / like," she protests, with a quick-coming
blush, and a little trembling ^semblance to escape from him.
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(3 feketctj in &ix C&aptersO
By NORA NEVILLE.
CHAPTER I.
NEGOTIATION.
SULTRY afternoon towards the end of August,
and I am sitting at the piano, under the close
supervision of my governess, Miss Macdragon,
wading through the various and innumerable diffi-
culties of the " Moonlight Sonata," when I hear a shout of
"Florence! Florence!"
I dart across the schoolroom, and run downstairs as fast as
I can. On reaching the hallr I find papa on the doorstep
preparing to go for a walk.
I march quietly up behind htm, and, putting my arms round
his neck, say, " Did you call me, papa ? "
" Yes. I am going on the Pier, and you may come with
me if your lessons are finished-"
Not waiting to hear any more, I hurry upstairs to my
bedroom, only stopping by the way to pick up my Holland
pinafore, which much-despised article was flung on one side
as I went down, so that papa should not think he had taken
me away from Macdragon and her grinding.
My anxiety is so great to elude the vigilance of Miss
Mac, that I do not even change my dress ; but hastily placing
on my dishevelled hair a sailor hat, pick up the first pair of
gloves handy, and join papa with a beaming countenance, for
it delights me much to picture in my mind's eye how grandly
I have cheated the governess. We walk slowly down the
Parade, until suddenly papa looks at me, and says,
" I must tell your mamma to speak to Miss Macdragon.
She has no right to allow you to come out dressed in this
untidy manner "
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t " Oh, papa ! " I exclaim, "please don't blame Miss Macdragon.
She did not see me before I came out, and I hurried because
I was afraid of keeping you waiting."
And I look up at him to see if my explanation has been
satisfactory, when, to my surprise, I find he is beckoning to a
tall, elderly gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who
crosses at once, and comes up to us, saying,
" Well, old fellow, you are the very last man I should have
expected to meet down here. If it's a fair question, what
have you come for ? "
" The benefit of Mrs. Brabazon's health," says papa. " You
know she has been ill for some time, and I thought the change
might do her good. By-the-bye, Humfrey, let me introduce
my little daughter to you. Florrie dear, Mr. Humfrey — my
oldest and most esteemed friend."
I bow slightly, and blush exceedingly, being unaccustomed
to have so much importance attached to my personality.
"And how old is Miss Florrie ? " says Mr. Humfrey.
" Oh, seventeen yesterday," I answer ; " but my birthday is
to be kept up to-night. Perhaps " — this with a look at papa —
" perhaps you would like to come and join us."
"There," says papa, "you can tell your wife of the conquest
you have made. Mind, I shall expect you at seven o'clock
sharp, and Mrs. Humfrey also, if she is down here."
" Ah, Brabazon, it's too late in the day to talk of conquests
to fan old fogy of sixty. Sooner tell Miss Florrie about
my son Valentine. He's twenty-four, very handsome, and
a captain in the Guards. That's more in your line — eh,
Missy?"
I am half flattered at Captain Valentine's name being
coupled with mine in that way, because he is in the Guards,
and girls always surround military men with a halo of
romance ; but on the other hand, I am wholly annoyed with
Mr. Humfrey for calling me Missy. With as much dignity
as I can command I resent it
" Indeed you are quite mistaken, for I don't like gentle-
men's society at all."
Of course I do not add that my reason is, because as yet
I have had no chance of judging thereof, but it seems as if he
reads my thoughts, for he says,
"Well, as you are only Just seventeen, your experience
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Valentine Hum/rey's Trust. 113
cannot be very great I presume up till now you have dealt
principally in declensions and rule of three."
" You are quite right," says papa ; " and if I can manage it
she won't have done with her studies for another year. I for
one thoroughly disapprove of the manner in which mothers of
the present day bring up their daughters. Girls at sixteen
now know as much as women of thirty used to know when I
was a boy, but they do not acquire the knowledge that
benefits."
" Well, Brabazon, I cannot disagree with a word you have
said. Indeed, I heartily concur with your sentiments. You
should see the mothers and daughters make a dead-set at my
Val when he comes into a room. Upon my soul, it is quite
amusing to watch it off."
u But then he's accounted an eligible," says papa.
" That makes little difference, my dear fellow. If a man is
not eligible to-day, he may be to-morrow ; and everything in
life is a chance."
It is a simple impossibility to explain my feelings whilst I
stand by and listen to this conversation. I am nearly choking
with passion, suppressed because I know I dare not make a dis-
play before papa, who is harder on me for my temper — which is
very hasty — than any other of my failings, which, possibly,
are not very limited. Macdragon says they are numberless,
At last they make their adieus, and we part — I just giving
the faintest inclination of my head, and at the same time a
very palpable sneer. Papa and I then go on the Pier, and get
to the top in time to meet the band moving off for the day.
No great loss either — their music has few charms. We sit.
down, and papa looks very pleased to have met his friend,
and been able to explain his sentiments to him. This is one
of the dear boy's weak points. I am quite determined not to-
speak first, and maintain a stolid silence, until papa asks,
" How does my Florrie like Mr. Humfrey ? "
I answer, with a slight attempt at satire, " I was thinking of
my lessons for to-morrow, papa, so I did not pay much atten-
tion to him."
I then give a sidelong glance at him to see the effect of my
words, but he evidently believes in my sincerity, so I have the
dissatisfaction of finding my little shaft falls perfectly harmless.
After that, we sit silent, gazing on the sea and sky.
vol. 1. DigtizJby Google
H4 S/. James's Magazine.
Beautiful things no doubt ; but the pleasure to be derived from
their beauties is much dependent on the mind viewing them.
After resting for half an hour, we start for home, and on our
arrival I go up at once to make my peace with Mac, whom I
discover asleep. She is sitting in the schoolroom in a large
arm-chair, with a crochet antimacassar thrptfn over her face,
presumably to keep off the flies. The window is open, and I
pefch myself on the broad ledge behind her, and leisurely
proceed to tickle her nose through the open-work with an ear
of corn which I have found in one of the vases on the mantel-
shelf. After a few slight attempts I grow bolder, and touch
her a little harder, gradually increasing the irritating move-
ment, till she suddenly wakes up, and mutters,
" Dear me ! How those.vicious brutes torment to-day ! I
never felt them so bad before."
Whilst she speaks, I crouch down behind her chair ; and as
.-she rises and crosses the room to seek her needlework, I glide
•gently out through the door, and rush to my bedroom, whence
I instantly shout,
u Miss Macdragon ! We have got visitors to dhmer to--
night ; come up at once like a dear, and dress yourself, and
Jhclp me."
t When she reaches my room, I say, with an air of innocence,
*' What a long time you have been sleeping ! I have been
down so mafty times that I began to think you were taking a
leaf out of Rip Van Winkle's book, and intended remaining in
a slumbering condition for twenty years."
"I am sure, Florence," says Mac, "that I had not been
dozing more than five minutes when you called me. But
whom do you expect to dinner ? "
I tell her of our rencontre with Mr. Humfrey, and we pro-
ceed to make ourselves properly smart for the occasion.
She attires herself in a dress of grey silk with a flowery
design (which might have been fashionable in the year one/),
and I wear a clear white muslin, made new for the evening.
A dark damask rose in my hair, which is auburn (though not
tinted with gold, as the hair of all nineteenth century heroines
is) completes my toilette. After receiving a friendly caution
from Mac not to be flippant, and only to answer when I
am addressed, we descend to the drawing-room. This room
is situated on the ground floor, and opens on to a small lawn.
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Valentine Humfrey' s Trust. 1 1 5
Two or three chairs and a table are kept outside for papa's
special use, as he generally goes out there after dinner to read
lad smoke, the latter habit being mamma's pet aversion.
Lucky she has no sons. Tliey would smoke anywhere and
everywhere. On entering the room we find our visitors have
already arrived ; and, shaking hands with Mr. Humfrey, I cross
to where mamma Hes on a sofa conversing in feeble tones with
Mrs. Humfrey. We are introduced, and she kisses me affec-
tionately, which I much object to. I don't believe in
women's kisses.
Dinner is announced 9oon after, and we pair off; Miss
Macdragon falling to my share. (Poor creature !) Notwith-
standing everything being very nice, and all the others seem-
ing very comfortable, I feel much bored and out of my element ;
and wonder if all dinners and dmner-parties through life will
be as slow. (Most devoutly, I hope not.) I am somewhat
relieved when mamma gives the signal, and we ladies rise
and follow her to the drawing-room.
The relief, however, is only temporary, for I am presently
called upon to show off one of my accomplishments by per-
forming on the piano, which command I obey with filial
affection, by getting through the shortest piece I know, in the
quickest possible time. I accept our visitors' meaningless
thanks with a good grace, and then, after an interval of five
minutes, Macdragon proceeds to display her talent ; but long
ere she gets through half her performance, both mamma and
Mrs. Humfrey (charmed no doubt by the soothing strains) are
fast asleep, and I may add snoring. Mac closes the piano
softly, and goes out of the room ; and I take the easy-chair
into the recess of the window, and give myself up to building
41 castles in the air."
I am presently roused from my reverie by hearing voices
in the garden, which I at once recognize as papa's and Mr.
Humfrey's. I cannot at first distinguish what they are talking
about, but as the wind wafts the sound towards me, I catch a
few words such as " Turkey will never pay ; " •' D'ye think
there will be war ? " and so on.
Now Turkey and the war don't interest me, and I am just
entertaining serious thoughts of sneaking off to bed without
saying "good-night" to any one, when my female curiosity is
roused by hearing my name mentioned. Conscience whispers
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n5 5/. Jameses Magazine.
" go," but Inclination says " stay," and of course, like the rest
of mankind or womankind, I follow Inclination. From whafa.
a sad fate shall I be saved ! for this is what I hear. our
•' Yes," papa is saying, " that's your theory, and mine also ; *
but suppose Flonrie cannot fancy him ! — what then, eh ? "
" What then ! Why make her fancy him. If you won't
look at this affair in the right light, I can't help it All I
know is that you and I are responsible for the money left to
Florence by her grandmother, which money, if she wanted
to marry to-morrow, would not be forthcoming."
" Yes," says papa, " I know all that as well as you do."
" And knowing that, don't you see the great advantage of
her marrying Valentine ? He would make no inquiries which
would cast a reflection on his father and father-in-law. Be-
sides, what we now possess must come to them ultimately."
" Well," exclaims papa presently, " I see no other way out
of the difficulty. But only don't ask me to take any action
in the affair. God forgive me ! I have helped to ruin her
prospects, but I won't have any hand in sacrificing her hap-
piness."
They cease speaking, and I silently creep to my bedroom,
and fling myself on the bed in an agony of mind impossible
to describe. All kinds of ideas suggests themselves to
me, the first thought which takes a really tangible form is
escape. But how to manage it ! Then I resolve to wait till
the Humfreys leave, and to go straightforwardly to papa, and
tell him what I have heard, and beg of him not to force me
to marry that hateful man. Yet how can I go to my father
and acknowledge that I listened to his own confession of
guilt ? Every fresh idea as it presents itself seems to be less
practicable than the last, until at length I come to the only-
conclusion left. The matter must take its own course till
anything like marriage is spoken of to me ; and then, if the
worst comes to the worst, I will tell papa I know all about
it, and promise him not to marry any one whilst he lives. Of
course I shall be an old maid ; but anything, even death, is pre-
ferable to being tied for life to a man without love. Wearied out
with trouble, I at last fall asleep, and do not wake all through
the night.
(To be continued.)
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Olla Podrida.
JHE New Year invariably brings with it a tide of
joyous reflections. Even in the dullest seasons,
the advent of Christmas and the following festive
times fill our homes with mirth and our hearts
with gladness. In wishing all our readers a Happy New
Year, we cannot but add a hope that it may prove more
prosperous to our country and the world at large than the one
just passing away. We ought, however, to take it as a matter
of congratulation that as far as we are concerned our sword is
still sheathed, and that the sagacity of our statesmen has piloted
the ship through the dangerous waters of continental struggles.
Let us hope that we may long continue to enjoy the blessings
of peace, in which state alone a country can truly congratulate
itself on the present, or the prospects of the future.
It is a long time since the dulhess of trade has told in
such a marked manner upon the appearance of retail houses.
Throughout the long lines of metropolitan thoroughfares
there has been scarcely any appearance of that seasonable
display of novelties and attractions which heralds the approach
of Christmas. It cannot be that the custom of making
presents to friends and others is about to be discontinued ;
neither is it to be accounted for by the fact that people have
supplied their wants earlier than usual. It is painful to think
of all that the absence of this display means. Not only are
the shopkeepers suffering from the want of means of their
usual customers, but the large manufacturing houses have
been brought to a standstill, and the working classes thrown
out of employ. There will be a time of hard trial during the
ensuing months, when the cold weather sets in ; and although
most of us have suffered more or less by the foregoing causes,
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1 1 8 Si. Jameses Magazine.
some have still enough and to spare, and we hope they will
not let the forthcoming appeals to their liberality be heard in
vain. Some consolation may be gathered from the fact tha^
better times are at hand, but the prospects of the future will
scarcely assist those whose wants are pressing. Undoubtedly
the working classes and their conduct during the last few
years has been the cause of much of their present evil, but
we must not be too severe on them when their time of bitter
trial comes. We are not all wise ; and though folly brings its
own misery, that misery is no less deserving of relief.
Those who have been terrified by the reports of illness and
fever at Brighton will be glad to avail themselves of the
special express to" St. Lawrence-on-Sea. . Thanet is not so
popular during the winter months as it deserves to be.
Ramsgate enjoys a particularly mild climate, and if visitors
were numerous would doubtless rouse itself to provide them
with entertainment. The difficulty of distance will be greatly
reduced if the South-Eastern Railway Company adheres to
its promises for Friday, the 22nd. Christmas is never a very
lively time in town, and a few days at the seaside are always
agreeable to busy men. It is a pity our warm southern coast
of Devon and Cornwall is so far, but we must be thankful
for what we have, and enjoy the Isle of Thanet with gratitude^ .
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VOL, h > Digitized by ^jC
" She clutched the coverlet convulsively, and pushed back the hair from her brow."
[Seepage u
lJ
^J V
-*-..-
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Promethia.
By ELLIS J. DAVIS,
AUTHOR OF "SEEN FROM THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL'S," ETC.
CHAPTER V.
AT MIDNIGHT.
Y eyes opened on a black and sombre scene. The
wall opposite to the bed on which I lay was
covered with a dark paper. The curtains of
the couch were black velvet, and the furniture
was of the same ebon hue. It was nearly dark, and the
fading. light did not tend to relieve the cheerlessness of such
surroundings. I lay in a semi-somnolent state, as if just
recovering from a powerful opiate, and the gloom was ex*
ceedingly oppressive, while I had a dull sensation of pain
in my head which was anything but encouraging. A silence
as of the grave hung upon all. Not the roll of a wheel, not
the twitter of a bird, not the sound of a voice. All quiet as
death itself. Indeed I might very well have been lying in
my own coffin for what I felt Presently the door of my room
opened slowly and a gentleman entered. He was dressed in
a plain black morning suit, and to all appearances did not
.know for a moment whether I was awake or asleep. He
paused by my bedside, pressed his hand on my pulse, and
felt my arms and my skin to see if there was any vital
heat Being satisfied that I was not dead or insensible, he
seemed disposed to move, but I turned a little and essayed
to speak. He drew back, and I had a good view of his
countenance as he said^ —
"You feel better ? Where is your pain ? "
He spoke like a medical man, and I concluded he was the
owner and proprietor of the private lunatic asylum under the
roof of which I had doubtless been conveyed.
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120 St. Janus' s Magazine.
I could not for a moment make a sensible reply, but lay
there staring at him, and anything but master of the situation,
as was usually my wont Something seemed to have happened
to me which entirely altered my demeanour, and I lay there
like a baby, quiet, and simply gazing upwards. He moved
away, and took from a table in the corner a glass full of some
fluid, which he made me drink, and I at once felt benefited by
the stimulant.
rt I am afraid you had a serious fall/' he said gently, in a
voice peculiarly low and soft, and yet a tone that indicated
the speaker to be a man of great physical power and endurance.
Voice is often a perfect index to character and bodily type.
" I remember falling, but how far or where I do not I::io\v,"
I replied, trembling a little. " I presume I am in the presence
of a medical gentleman." I said this mechanically, and not
as I generally expressed myself, but it seemed to me that I
was obliged to speak whether I would or no.
He answered without taking his eyes off me, but he smiled
a pleasant cheerful smile.
* My name is Magnus Delgardo. You are welcome in my
house, though I regret the accident which has brought you
here. I am indebted to you for restoring to me one of my
patients. Don't speak any more now ; rest, and I will send
you something to eat"
I was about to deprecate his intention, but he stole away
before I could utter a word. The celerity of his movements
struck me very forcibly, and I lay a long time thinking of
him. Presently a woman dressed in black calico entered with
a tray, and she persuaded me, like a kind nurse, to sit up and
eat something. They had certainly a good cook in the house,
for little as was my inclination to partake of food, the savoury
odour and the taste of the first few morsels woke within me a
powerful appetite, and I made a good meal. She gave me
some brandy and water to drink with it, and then bade me
lie down again and keep quiet. As she left me I put my hand
up to my face, and for the first time discovered that my head
was bandaged. I conjectured that in falling I must have
hurt myself severely, and rather congratulated myself on
having obtained such excellent assistance so immediately.
My nurse did not light any gas or leave a candle, but quitted
the room and left me to the gloom and my own reflections.
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Prometkia* 121
It certainly was not lively in a dark room hung with such a
sombre-tinted paper, and the heavy palHike curtains drooping
above my head. But my senses were not very active, and I
imagine I soon dropped asleep, for when I woke there was
a faint light as from a night-light in the room, and I fancied
I heard the door open slowly. Not for the moment remem-
bering where I lay, my first impulse was to shout, but I con*
trolled it, and presently by the light, such as it was, I saw a
figure, the outline of which was female, advancing towards
my bed. Surprised and astonished, for I saw more by
her movement than any other indication that it was not
the nurse, I remained perfectly silent, and breathed regu-
larly as one in sleep might da My mind was agitated,
but I thought it best to be still and await the result of this
nocturnal visit.
She came slowly up to the foot of the bed,— it had no
curtains around it ; and she placed the light she had carried in
her hand on a little table near, while with a steady fixed look
she watched me. Then folding her arms on the top of the
footpiece of the bed, she gazed at me with an earnest intensity.
My mind was strangely troubled. At first I thought, "This is
some terrible nightmare ; " then, " This is one of the doctor's
patients ; " finally, " This woman mistakes me for somebody
else," But as she did nothing else than remain there looking
at me, I came to the conclusion that she meant me no harm,
and kept my position and deceptive demeanour. She did
not seem to think it strange that my eyes were open, but her
gaze dwelt steadily on me for a long time, while on my part
I occupied myself by examining her as closely as the dim
candle-light would permit
She was somewhat above the middle height of woman;
her form and figure perfect and most beautiful. By the
development of the latter I judged her to be not more than
twenty, and age had written no line upon her brow. She did
not seem to be a woman of earthly mould. Her marble
forehead gleamed white and pure as a snow-clad mountain in
the moonlight, and the golden-brown hair slept in serene peace
above it. Beneath her finely pencilled eyebrows there came
forth an intense light, a glow anything but natural. It seemed
to me wild and shadowy, as of one looking into a looking-
glass and catching the reflection of one's own face with a
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122 Si. James's Magazine.
feeling of mingled dread and horror, — such a look as a child
might give when presented unawares, and for the first time, to
the mocking image. The gleam of the candle permitted me
to form no idea of the color of those eyes. That they were
beautiful, I felt rather than saw ; there was about their glance
a certain fascination, and yet not a fearsome fascination, but
a kind of controlling impulse. Have you ever sat in the room
with a person from whose face you cannot keep your gaze ?
This visitor was to me one of these fascinators, and I was
compelled to look at her.
The lower part of her face was a little less perfect and
admirable. The nose was a fairly good shape, and the lips
delicate and gracefully curved, but the chin had an indefinable
want of make about it, and the cheeks seemed strangely
hollow for one so young. I thought she must have gone
through a great deal of trouble and sorrow to look so pale,
but the eyes and the general expression did not confirm arty
such opinion, and possibly it was due to the abseace of suffi-
cient light to relieve the shadows in which her position had
cast the lower portion of her visage. I noticed also her dress,
which was less peculiar than anything else about her, for
she wore a plain stuff body over a coarse striped garment
without trimming, and made of a dark winter material, while
no ornaments of any kind broke the quiet of the costume, or
detracted from the serenity of the pose of her limbs. She
seemed perfect master of herself, and wore nothing round her
delicate throat but a plain gold band, which fell into the
lines of the flesh most gracefully. She clasped her hands
together, and now and again seemed to be muttering some-
thing, but the purport I could not hear. Presently she ap-
peared to wake up, and for the first time I listened to the
accents of a voice than which I never heard a sweeter.
" He sleeps calmly and peacefully. I saw him brought in,
and I thought he was dead. What is he ? How fair, how
pure his cheeks ; and he has no whiskers like " She men-
tioned a name to herself, and continued slowly, " Is he going
to stay ? Shall I see him to-morrow ? or will he vanish as
the others vanish ? What have I seen in any of them ? They
stare at me and turn away and go, and I see them no more.
He shall not go. He shall stay. He is beautiful, handsome,
lovely, and I like to look at him. Shall I make him stay ?
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Promethia. 123
Perhaps I need not He will stay if I ask him in the morn-
ing. But shall I see him ? Shall I wake him now ? "
She seemed to hesitate a long time, and I was afraid to
speak for fear of frightening her. I was, in truth, too fasci-
nated to move or think of anything but what she was going
to do next, and as she started to make her way to the head
of the bed, slowly and with stealthy footsteps, I began to feel
a little nervous. Supposing this was one of the lunatics, and
a dangerous one ? For one moment she clutched the coverlet
convulsively, and pushed back the hair from her brow ; the
next, she advanced close to me, and stooping over me examined
my face with the greatest care. Into my eyes she peeped,
not apparently noticing that they were wide open, and then
she passed her hand over my features with a strange in-
quisitiveness. I trembled, and yet as the delicate flesh came
near my lips I could not resist the natural gallantry of my
feelings, and I kissed her palm gently. She started back like
one stung.
" He is awake, and he will see me here, and tell." Then,
without a word or a sound, so very noiselessly did she tread,
she took her candle and left the room. She neither glanced
at me nor turned round ; my touch seemed to have overcome
every other feeling but one of fear at the idea of being found
there at that hour of the night, and she rushed away, but with
the gliding motion of a snake, and as noiselessly as if she wore
no boots or shoes, which was perhaps the case. I sat up in
bed when she shut the door and I trembled violently all over
as I heard it close.
"What!" I thought to myself, "am I mad? Have the
events of the day turned me crazy? Could there possibly
have been a woman of flesh and blood looking at me and
running from me like that ? What shall I do ? Where shall
I fly, and to whom shall I call for assistance ?"
I tried to jump out of bed and scream. I found no voice
but the effort to move brought on such an attack of pain in
my head that I lay still, and was unable to think of anything
but my own sufferings for the next few hours. As I became
more comfortable, and dropped into a sort of half dose, the
image of this woman arose before me again, and it seemed to
me that I had at some other time — somewhere, but where
I knew not — seen the form and features of this exquisite
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creature. I longed to see more of her ; she bad fascinated
me; and it was with that desire uppermost in my breast
that I sank into the oblivion of sleep, and slumbered till day-
break
CHAPTER VI.
AN INTRODUCTION.
MORNING broke very differently to what I had expected.
The first light of dawn fell Upon me through the half-closed
ctirtains, and revealed a clear sky, from which the cloud* and
mists had long since rolled away, and where there was
already promise of a bright winter sunshine. My eyes opened
slowly and somewhat wearily ; but as the cheerful daylight
entered them I recovered by degrees, and the oppression of the
night with its shadowy visitations wore away.
About nine o'clock, as far as I could judge — for my watch
had stopped in the night, as I had forgotten to wind it up —
the doefr of my room opened, and the same nurse who had
attended me the previous evening brought me some breakfast
a*?d asked how I felt. Until I heard her question I had not
thought of my state of health, save only when the paia in my
head reminded me of my disabled condition. I was obliged
to consider before answering, and tried to rise in the bed, but
I was weak and feeble, and the effort cost me a good deal of
discomfort and pain. I relapsed into a recumbent posture,
and replied,
" I feel weak this morning, bat I suppose I shall be all right
in an hour or so, and then I must get up and go."
" Indeed, you will not," she answered ; " so make your mind
easy. You have had a very serious accident, and you must
be prepared to remain here for some days at least But the
doctor will see you, and arrange all matters for your comfort,
I have no doubt."
With tiiis agreeable intelligence she placed the tray within
my reach, and persuaded me to eat as much as I could.
There are very few situations in which I have ever found
myself at a loss for an appetite, and this morning I felt
ravenous, though ill. So I made the most of the food allowed
me, and while I was eating said aothing to draw the atten*
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Promethia. 125
tion of my nurse from the satisfaction of my creature comforts,
the ministration to which seemed to be her only duty in the
room. No sooner, however, did I feel satisfied, than I began
to ask her questions about the house and its owner ; but she
was too well trained to give me any satisfaction. All she did
was to shrug her shoulders, and answer with a "Yes" or
" No," when there was really no information to be given by
such a reply to my question. At last, in despair of ascer-
taining anything from her, I demanded,
44 Is the doctor coming to see me ?"
** Certainly," she replied, " as soon as ever you feel disposed
to receive him, but he is very busy, and will not come until
you send for him."
" Fetch him by all means," 9aid I ; "as soon as ever he can
come, I shall be glad to see him."
She left the room immediately, and in little more than two
minutes the doctor made his appearance, and smiled to me a
good morning.
•'And how do we feel this morning?" was his greeting.
" Did you have a good night's rest ? I came in to see you
before, but found you fast asleep, and it is a rule with rop^^^V
never to disturb a patient when in a'natural slumber. If yjW?^W^>
have a fancy for anything, let me know it at once." j f? \v
He came close to me as he said these words, and felt my \ .
pulse after true doctor fashion. His brow was mild, art4
relaxed considerably as he ascertained my strength to be -
good. \£,
"You will do very well," he said; "thank God for your "*
wonderful constitution. In a day or so you will be able to get
out of bed, if the wound in your head heals as it should. I
do not think it will hurt you to talk a little, and perhaps
you may have something on your mind for the relief of
which you will be thankful. Speak freely, and let me know
if I can add in any way to your comfort. You need not
regret giving me trouble, for you have done me a great
service."
" I am," I answered, " under considerable obligation to you,
and I have no one anxious about me. If you will let me
send a line to my hotel, I shall be glad, and then there is
nothing more on my mind, I assure you. I am sorry to be
so much trouble — that is all."
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126 Si. James's Magazine.
" I shall be glad to know something of my patient," said
the doctor, coming down by the side of the bed, and bringing
near to me a table constructed for the express purpose of
allowing an invalid to write in a nearly recumbent position.
* Write your letter, and then talk to me. I will just go and
finish my rounds, after which I shall be at your service."
He gave me a pen and ink, and assisted me to write to the
landlord of my hotel, telling him that I had met with an
accident which would confine me to bed for a day or two;
but he suggested as an alteration that I should say nothing
about the accident, so I had to write the note over again, and
on his advice added that I was staying some days with a
friend. I wrote as he wished, and gave the letter to him, and
then he left me for a time, while I lay thinking of the strange
events of the previous day, and wondering whether it would
be prudent or not to take the doctor into my confidence
concerning them. It seemed to me unadvisable to do so for
more reasons than one. In the first place, the things I had
witnessed were hardly worthy of credence, and from his
speech I gathered that the woman I had sent back to his
place was one of his patients, and he, having secured her,
would hardly care to examine the haunted house again.
Besides, I had quite made up my mind to do so at the first
opportunity, and see what part of my fit had been caused by
real events, and what by the fateful absurdity of temporary
indigestion or foolish imaginary dread. Then I thought, " It
is very unwise in my present state to say anything that might
lead him to think my mind in the least affected by the fall I
have had," so on the whole I concluded it to be the wisest
course to hold my tongue and hear what he had to say. I did
not at all object to the prospect of passing a few days or even
a week under the doctor's roof, if there was any chance of
my last night's visitant with the beautiful eyes coming near
me again, for I confess the more I thought of her as I lay in
a lazy, indolent manner, occupied with nothing, the more it
struck me that she was a very extraordinary woman, and one
well worth the trouble of trying to see again if the chance
occurred.
My reflections had come to a satisfactory termination when
the doctor entered and took a chair by my bedside. He
seemed rather tired from his exertions, and appeared inclined
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Promethia. 127
to silence. I let him remain quiet, but I noticed that if his
mouth was at rest, his eyes were not, and he looked at me as
closely as a dog watches a cat His motives for this scrutiny
did not occur to me, so I rested quietly under his gaze,
making not the least objection to being stared out of counte-
nance, and only on my part retaliating by keeping his features
well in view as he sat a little back towards the black curtain
of the bed. He was the first to break into conversation.
"You are an American," he said; "and you came to
England for the purpose of finding excitement? Has the
old world more life in it than the new? or have you new
world -men found out that fast life is not always exciting ?"
u How you know my thoughts I cannot divine," I replied
quietly ; " but you have hit on the object of my visit to this
country. It is not the first time I have been here, though. I
found that all the worlds— both old and new— presented no
novelty to me, and I should have buried myself long ago if
the fear of a dull grave, and unlively company had not im-
pressed itself upon my imagination."
Dr. Delgardo smiled.
"You never did any work, I presume?"
" Indeed you are mistaken. I have tried work, but that is
no relief at all, because there is no work which takes long
enough. They applied to me once to assist in the reduction
of the national debt, and in ten minutes I drew up a scheme
for the perfect liquidation and complete removal of the whole
incubus. Of course they turned me out at once."
"Well, no wonder; you are too clever for the age, and of
course it rebels against you. Time brooks no master, and you
would make it your absolute slave. If ever you find rest and
peace, it will only be when your energies are worn out."
I laughed at him.
" Indeed ! — a pleasant consolation. Throw that sort of physic
a little farther than the dogs, doctor. I mean to enjoy life
yet, if there is anything left to enjoy."
" You have but one chance, and that lies in matrimony. The
union of your restless spirit with another one not equally
restless might have the advantage of quickening her life and
subduing yours. Try it when you leave me."
" I should get tired of the nicest woman that ever lived in
a week, if not before. Oh, doctor, you men of method are
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128 Si. Jamefs Magazine.
to be envied ; you even subdue your feelings to regulation
movements. Now I never know what it is to BE at all : I
think and I act, and then I weary — not of the labour, but of
the want of satisfaction in the work."
" Well, but has no woman," he asked, returning to the theme
of marriage, " has no woman ever charmed you into something
of excitement and passionate desire ? "
" For half an hour, yes ; but for longer, never. I believe
there is such a thing as love, but not for me. I am quite
impervious to the charms of a host of Venuses ; they would
not even draw from me a look unless it were given freely or
accidentally."
The doctor smiled at me incredulously ; after a pause, he
added, " If this be so you are a grand exception to the rule
both for all men and especially for your own countrymen ;
they at least are never wanting in appreciation of the charms
of beauty, and I should be sorry to trust my loves, if they
happened to be very pretty women, with an American, even
if he professed more than you a hundred times over."
I smiled in my turn.
" My dear doctor, you only know a few phases, a very few
phases of human nature. All our countrymen are not cast
upon one model. Do you know that I am only two-and-twenty,
and I have traversed the whole of the habitable globe, and a
good deal of earth that is uninhabitable also. Well, in every
country I have been in I have made it a rule to see the pret-
tiest and most lovable women, and I have never yet — I do not
mind telling you the truth — taken a fancy to any woman for
more than a few hours at the very outside. Bring me the
most beautiful, perfect, fascinating creature that ever existed,
and it will be very curious if I am not tired of her society
before she has sat in that chair for half an hour. You do not
know all natures, and you cannot imagine what a man feels
who began the world at three."
He stared at me, but not in an impertinent way, and after
a moment his gaze softened into that peculiar expression of
seeking to look me through which had first impressed me
that morning. I submitted, however, not wishing to be rude
to the man to whom I owed so much, and presently I resumed
the conversation.
" You must not imagine I was never inclined to the senti-
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Pronpethia. 129
ment of love, For during my youth — that is, while I was ten
or eleven years old — I had the same romantic tempera-
ment as most persons, but that is all over long ago, and I
would give a very large sum of money to be able to experi-
ence the sentiment again."
* And supposing you did," he asked, with an evident object
in the queston, " would you marry ? or would you fly from the
presence of the temptation i "
" Marry, doctor ! " I replied with a start. " Am I mad, or do
you think my brain already requires the benefit of your sana-
torial treatment ? Do sane men ever marry ? "
He fairly laughed. Until that time I had doubted whether
he could laugh, and now that I witnessed his features convulsed
with a broad grin and the free flow of a genuine hilarity, I
became more easy with him.
" You see there are different opinions on the question in the
new world and the old, but I never express anybody else's
opinion upon a subject, not because I am conceited, but because
I am individual. I believe marriage was an invention of some
evil-minded person for the purpose of propagating the race of
man and enjoying the misery of the sufferings of flesh. There,
now you have it; and if you like to write a book with that as
the text of your labour, I shall be most happy to assist you
and to make over to you the copyright of the idea."
He did not answer for a few moments, but appeared thinking.
u My friend, you will be very dull here/' he said at last ; " if
I introduced to you for a companion a most lovely and
lovable woman, could I depend upon you not to abuse the
introduction ? "
" Certainly, my dear fellow ; and you might rely upon me
simply because I should have no inclination so to do. Can
you, however, depend on the lady ? — because I have always
found mysdf irresistible, you know, and it is difficult to with-
stand the fascinations of a woman in love with you. You
know well enough that if a woman makes up her mind to
secure a man's attentions, it is not easy for the most stoical
and passionless to avoid her."
" Ah," he answered, " but therein lies the danger, for yon
never can tell, with a woman young and comparatively un-
tried in the affections of the heart, what sort of fancy she
may take. Love is a thing I have never been able to quite
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130 5/. yamefs Magazine.
comprehend, though I think I know the workings of every
human passion, and even up to a certain point manage to deal
with that of love. But there are at times and in certain dis-
positions sudden and unaccountable vagaries of the passion
which absolutely baffle all attempts at explanation, and if you
should happen to become the subject of such a one — for I
must confess you are a good-looking man — would you have
the nobility and generosity of character to tell me so ere it
became too late ? "
"Indeed there is not the slightest cause to fear me," I
answered, somewhat puzzled to think what all this was to lead
to. " If it were your wife who made love to me, it would be no
use. I speak personally, because I feel sure if you have a wife
she must be charming, — I hardly know why, except there is
something in your eye which speaks of the appreciation of
that which is beautiful."
" You are right in saying so," he answered cheerfully, though
a shade passed over his fine features at the mention of his
wife ; " I love all that is lovely, but the possession of the beau-
tiful is often as much beyond us as the possession of the
good."
" Still," I answered in a consolatory tone, " we all strive for
the good, or pretend to do so ; and we must be satisfied if we
reach part of the way towards our aspirations."
He sighed and rose as I spoke.
" I am very busy this morning," he said, " but I will see you
again ; and Mrs. Taylor will give you every attention, and dress
your wound when it is requisite. You shall not be alone ; but
remember your promise to me with the companion I am about
to introduce to you."
" You are too kind," I returned. " Please do not let me
interfere with any of your arrangements : I am by this time
pretty well accustomed to the misery of loneliness."
" My guest is entitled to the best I have," was all he replied ;
and then he shook my hand and moved slowly to the door.
The light of the sun's rays shining through a window fell upon
his head as he opened the door and stood on the threshold,
and at the moment I thought to myself that he was, or
had been, a very handsome, noble-looking man, and that a
little care on his part now would restore a good deal of youth
and beauty to his features. But he seemed utterly uncon-
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Promethia. 131
scious of my observation. He put his head out into the pas-
sage and pronounced a single word in a soft but clear tone.
"Promethia!"
The sound of his voice appeared to me to be echoed a long
way among or through many passages, and to be reflected
from projecting walls and hollow doorways. The silence
returned unbroken, however, and my feelings were those of
the most painful apprehension. It was useless my wondering
at the state of my nerves. It seemed to me as if my whole
constitution were upset, and I had lost the usual powers of
mind for which I had been remarkable from youth upwards.
For me to be lying in bed and trembling from head to foot
at the sound of a voice was as rare an occurrence as for me to
be amused by anything or anybody ; but certainly the one
was taking place, and, for the other, the conversation of the
doctor had afforded me unquestionable entertainment. If the
fall and wound had affected me seriously, the only thing I
could do was to remain quiet and trust to my new friend's
care to restore me to health. He was doubtless a skilled
practitioner, but if after a day or two I did not find myself
as well as I expected, it would be easy for me to suggest — in a
modest manner of course, and without wounding his feelings —
that I should like to have the benefit of other advice. I might
feel quite well in the morning ; at any rate I should not
improve matters by worrying myself about imaginaty sensa-
tions. I lay still, therefore, and waited for what was next to
happen. Nor did the event keep me long in suspense.
The doctor uttered the strange name once more, and, as
before, it was echoed along the passages ; but this time it
appeared to be responded to by the opening of a door and the
sharp click of the lock of a closing portal. Then there was
the light sound of footsteps as of a woman coming along the
passage slowly and regularly. They grew more distinct as
they neared the room in which I lay. My ears caught every
sound.
The person paused apparently before my doorway, and I
heard the voice of my friend the doctor speaking in a decided
tone, —
" Promethia," he said, " my friend Mr. Harte is confined to
his bed, and will need cheerful society. I wish you to do your
best to amuse him while he is with me. You can make him
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132 Si. James* s Magazine.
feel the time less heavy than it otherwise would, and I rely
on you to do so. I shall expect tt of you, and "
The concluding words did not reach my ear. He then
seemed to await a reply, but if any was given I did not catch
it, and I next heard the sound of footsteps, distinctly those of
a man, going away in the direction from which the sound of
the opening door had proceeded Naturally I expected the
advent of the young lady or old lady — I did not know which—
who was to amuse me ; but I lay long in silent anticipation —
so long, indeed, that I was almost dropping asleep, tedium
having its effect and overcoming completely the excitement
of curiosity which I had begun to experience. The first thing
which roused me was the striking of a clock. It must, I
thought, be a very hollow house, for every sound, however
trifling, echoed and re-echoed on all sides in a way positively
awful. It was just ten.
I turned to the window, and saw the sun shining with
tolerable brightness ; the air was clear, and above in the pure
sky there seemed to be a cheerful tone, which made me rather
regret that I could not share the joy of Nature in the brightness
of her autumnal weather. Still, if I could not get out, it was
pleasant to look at the sky and catch the light of the snn, and
listen to what I fancied I could hear, though I was not quite
certain, — the song of a happy bird. How different was the
appearance of the prospect I could see from where I lay to
what it ought to have been judging from my anticipations of
this house on the previous day. The sombre, dreary pile
with the faded creepers looked to me then as if no blue sky
ever condescended to canopy it, and the miserable mist and
damp had appeared as part and parcel of the establishment
over which their gloom presided. The changes of Nature
are very wonderful. Somehow I got led on into a train of
thought to which I was not much accustomed, and I almost
fancy I might have been heard muttering to myself some of
the poets' praises of Nature. I forgot the anticipated visitor ;
I forgot my present condition, and the wound in my head ;
I foigot the weariness of life ; and I even believe that in a few
moments more I should have begun to sing, or attempt to
sing, when on turning my head from the window, behold,
before me stood the woman who had paid my room a visit on
the previous night I
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Protnethia. 133
CHAPTER VII.
PROMETHIA.
She stood in the full sunlight, with bare brow and hands
folded on her breast, her head slightly inclined forward ;
and there was a dubious look in her eyes as if she feared her
reception. The extreme beauty of her features was far more
striking by day than it had been by the dull light of the
candle, but there was no mistake about her being the same
person. How shall I describe her once more ? The task is
well-nigh impossible. There are some things for which we
find no words. She was herself, — a woman, and yet not a
woman. No female had ever produced on me the same im-
pression. There she stood, silent and pensive, with her eyes
furtively resting on my face, and her hands clasped rigidly
on the home of so much beauty, while as the warm breath
coursed in and out of the ruby lips, her bosom rose and fell,
and the hands upon it claimed attention by their exceeding
whiteness and perfect shape. But she was not a creature to
be looked at for long, I tremble to think of all that passed
through my brain as I gazed on her. I had heard of thcTJ
woman, and I never believed it possible for any man m\fc>s , v
sober senses to go to the lengths I had read and heard of ; W
now it seemed as if all my firm resolves, all my stoical feeling^)
were passing away. There was a maddening passion in her
gaze. It was rapture to behold a thing, a being so perfect;
it was terror, and yet it was delight ; it was joy and intense
pain ; it thrilled me ; it made me feel as I never felt before.
I looked and feared, and a desire to clasp her hand or press
her lips struggled for the mastery. I trembled through every
fibre ; I felt a cold shock at my heart. Then my head was
burning. I know not what other sensations I experienced, until
at length, moved by a feeling I could not repress, I turned and
hid my face in the pillows of my couch.
What she thought of my behaviour I do not know, but she
took no notice, and a few moments which seemed to me like ,
ages passed away. All the time I had the knowledge of
something to be loved or feared being near me, and the
vol. 1. Digitized MGoogle
madness of love, I had heard of the wild things that rawprn *c S
all ages, and not least in this one, have done for the fiawbnj
134 Si. James's Magazine.
horror and intense feeling made me press my face closer and
closer and closer to the pillow like a frightened child.
At length a voice broke the dread silence of the room. It
was hers, — sweet, musical, and melodious, like the sound of a
harp. I felt the most pleasing sensation as it fell upon me,
and ere it ceased I raised my head and looked at her calmijr
and without dread or doubt Every sensation gave place to
one of tranquillity and peaceful delight, yet she spoke sadly, —
"Am I so fearsome— so hideous ? He does not tell me so,
and yet it must be. That woman shrinks from me, spurns
me, hates me, curses me ; and now this one turns away and
fears."
Then more particularly to me, she continued, —
" Look at me and tell me. I will know, and I can bear the
truth. Am I ill-formed and hideous ? Do my looks inspire
you with terror ? Tell me, and oh, do not have pity. I am
but as I was made. Oh, pity me. You will not say I am all
ugly — that I am a fear and a horror ? Spare me."
As I looked fixedly at her, my sense completely shocked
by this strange address, a change came over my feelings* It
no longer appeared to me that I was in the presence of a
woman out of the common, of a being not of my own sphere.
All her coldness and rigidity, her majestic features, and her
grandiose of head and figure, softened down, and she was a
very woman. I was somewhat surprised at the words she
used, but if her utterances were sincere, as it appeared, the
pain and anguish she was undergoing must be intense, and I
hastened to say what I could to give her relief.
" How strange," I began, not wishing to be too sudden in
the expression of my opinion, " that Nature should leave her
most beautiful creations in ignorance of their own perfections I
Will you believe in my sincerity if I say all I feel about you ?"
She stared, and for a moment covered her face with her
hands ; then drawing them rapidly away, she said,
" You do not mean it — you are not going to tell me the
truth."
But my expression seemed to change her opinion, and,
folding her arms once more on her breast, she concluded,
u Say all you mean."
" Well, then, I would tell you, however imperfect my power
of praising such beauty may be, that you are aHJloveliness and
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Promeihicu 135
grace ; and my opinion is not to be despised," I continued,
going back to my usual self-sufficient style of conversation,
" for I have seen the prettiest woman of the day in all parts
of the world, and — come here, I will tell you the truth."
She obeyed my request and my motion, and drew near to
the bed I leant over towards her, and whispered,—
" You are without exception the most beautiful woman I
have ever seen."
" Is it so ? " she asked, trembling all over with an emotion
the power of which I could not understand. " Is it so ? — am I
fair ? am I to be looked upon with anything but dread ? Oh,
if you are good — and you must be good— tell me for the dear
sake of nature is this true, or are you making fun of me ? He
said once I was hideous, and she I am fearsome. Oh, do not
deceive me, or I will not stay here, though he told me I must.
Do tell me, is this true ? "
The appeal in her voice and gesture was irresistible. I do
not think I could have refused such an entreaty from any
woman, but it was impossible for man to deny the request of
such a woman as this.
" I have spoken the truth, as God is my judge ! " I replied
solemnly. " Never through all the years of my life, — and
though in number not many, they have been filled with strange
experiences, — have I seen or heard of any woman so beautiful
as you are. It is not that there may fail more pretty women,
with brighter eyes, or clearer skins, or fairer complexions,
women to whom many men might bow down, and forget at
their feet their manhood, their duty, their God, all of life here
and hereafter ; but not one ever influenced me as you have
done, and never have I till this moment felt what the real
power of beauty is."
She smiled now, and with the agreeable relaxation of her
features a new glory awoke in her face. Her eyes sparkled ,
her cheeks flushed with warm rich blood. Never had I seen
anything so magnificent. I was betrayed into an exclamation
which to a lady was rude, to say the least, but she accepted it
as earnest of my good faith and truth, and returned, —
" You have made me feel happier than I have ever been
since that woman told me of — of myself. Ah, then it was
not true?"
" Certainly not, if she disparaged your beauty ; and when
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I see your slanderer, I will not be slow, I assure you, in telling
so."
u And you, — have you thought of ever seeing anything like
me?"
(t Like you ? no! I never believed the earth held any woman
so fair. I shall thank the accident which brought me here,
and I hope while I remain you will let me see plenty of
you."
She stooped down suddenly on her knees by the bedside
and took my hand in hers. Then, ere I could prevent it, she
moved it to her lips, and I felt her warm breath steal over the
veins and send a quick pulsation through my entire frame.
She however did it innocently and in all purity of thought.
She was divinely simple.
" If you nurse me like that," I said, half inclined to bend
over and stroke the beautiful golden-brown hair, " I shall get
well very soon, but — I shall not say so."
She rose to her feet and folded her arms once more, while
her brow saddened.
" You are so kind and have done me so much good that I
will be to you anything you wish," she said bluntly. " What
shall I do ? Alas, I know little of the ways of the world that
are called amusements, though I have read of them."
" Miss Delgardo," I began, but a start on her part cut me
short.
" Not that name — not that name ! I hate it. I have no
right — I dare not use it. She said so. No, be good, be kind,
and call me by my other name, — do ! do ! do ! "
There could be no great harm in humouring her whim,
though to me it was unintellible, I did not believe this
woman was my host's wife, and the natural conclusion which
had forced itself on my mind was that she stood in the rela-
tionship of a daughter, probably by a foreign woman. It is in
the fruit of such unions that the most beautiful and often the
most characteristic forms of nature are seen, and it occurred
to me that some such circumstance might account for the
peculiarity of this strange person. What was I to do to please
her ?
"Anything that is agreeable to you I will do, but it is
usual to call young ladies by their surnames," said I,
smiling.
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Promethia. 137
" Call me Promethia," she said ; 4< it is my name. He calls
me so, and I want no other."
" Ah," thought I, " she loves him, then ; but they are not
married, and this woman she talks about is an interferer."
But she divined my thoughts, apparently.
u No ! no ! not that. It is not for that, but I like the
name. If you wish me to be happy and good, call me nothing
else."
There was nothing for it but acquiescence. I was also
afraid that if I failed to humour my new beauty, she would
take to the usual resort of her sex and seek safety in flight.
Then conceive how much more lonely my position would be
than hitherto. No, I must keep on good friends with my
visitor, and leave time to explain what was anomalous about
her. She watched me closely, with her eyes fixed and her lips
shut. There was an expression I did not altogether like
about the resolute closing of her mouth ; it seemed to indi-
cate cruelty and resolution to evil. But the expressions of a
face under strong excitement are often fallacious. I motioned
her to sit down, and said,
" If you wish it, I will call you by that very classical appel-
lation, though to my mind you are more of a Minerva than an
indefinite nobody. Can you tell me how you came by that
strange name ? "
" When I know you better I will tell you all I know, for
you have been very, very good to me. Let me amuse you
now. What can I do ? "
" Ah," said I, smiling, " that is for you to say ; I am help-
less. The wound in my head does not hurt very much, but
the loss of blood has weakened me."
She started up with a sudden cry like that of a wounded
tiger. " Was it you lost blood ?— oh, horror ! " And she sank
back in the chair which stood by my bedside.
I was startled completely out of my wits. I rubbed my
eyes. Was it broad daylight ? was I dreaming ? or had the
fall and subsequent event paralysed my brain and made an idiot
of me ? No, it was not so. To convince myself, I pulled my
watch out from under my pillow and wound it up. I recom-
mend any one in a similar position to do likewise, — the click
of the turning wheels will convince a man whether he really
ys awake even if the sight of the enemy Time does not Well,
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then, if I was in my senses, what could be the meaning of her
exclamation, unless she was so delicately sensitive to the sight
and idea of blood that the mere mention of it caused her to
feel faint. I put my hand out to her and touched her cheek.
She revived, and rose.
"No, it could not have been you," she said, "for you only
came yesterday. You are not very ill, are you ? "
" Oh dear, no. I fell down somewhere in the garden and
hurt my head, and I suppose it bled a good deal ; but I did
not think it would distress you, or I would not have mentioned
if
She seemed to understand what was passing in my mind,
and hastened to relieve the impression.
" It was not that, but I thought you had suffered for me,
and I should have been so sorry."
Nothing could equal the tenderness in her tone and the
feeling of her regard as she said this. I am not a vain man,
but I felt I had attracted her, and to win the notice only of
such a woman might have made any man place a high value
on himself. I could but smile and thank her for her attention,
assure her I was not hurt much, and if she nursed me should
soon be well.
" And now," she said, rising, lc you are dull : I will fetch my
music. Do you like music ? "
" As much as anything," I replied, relapsing into my old
self.
She took no notice of the weary tone in my answer, but left
the room, and I remained gazing after her in silence and sus-
pense until she reappeared with a harp in one hand. Another
wonder — she carried a large and massive gilt harp in one
hand as easily as a strong man would bear a walking-stick.
I expressed myself glad to see the instrument she had chosen,
and she took a seat on a low chair by the side of my couch.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE QUARREL.
Sue settled beeself in an easy posture and rested the harp
against a footstool. She leant forward, and let her fingers stray
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Prometkia. 139
for some moments among the strings, without visible object or
audible sound save a low murmuring as of falling water in the
•distance. Then, suddenly raising bar fair head, she swept the
■strings with a brilliancy of touch and power, of execution
which entranced me. I am always susceptible to the charms
of music, but it had never before been my good fortune to
hear such exquisite strains. The air she played seemed com-
posed of several others mingled together, and I fancied I could
distinguish notes of well-known melodies, but not of any one
in particular. I did not disturb her, but listened in silence.
As she sat there with the light falling full upon her head and
shoulders, and the exertion revealing the outline of the
muscles of neck and chest, I thought to myself that I had
never been in the presence of such a lovely being. While she
-was playing, the weird appearance, the strange aspect of
countenance which had repelled me from her at first, wore off
entirely, and the majestic outline of the features softened into
a most womanly contour. The eyes lost their fiery glow, and
beamed soft and mild, yet full of a poetic expression. Her
breath flowed freely, her golden-brown hair loosened slightly
from the fillet which bound it, and streamed downwards in
two long plaits or braids, while the front portion was drawn in
simple bands across her fair forehead. The marble whiteness
of this and, the delicate hue of the cheeks, was particularly
.striking; and the full shapely neck and throat joined and
bore the head erect as a column of Parian stone might do
some noble statue. She did not assume, but she fell into, a
graceful attitude, and as she played her perfections grew upon
me more and more. I was entranced. I listened, and felt
happier than I had been for years,— happier, if I tell the truth,
than I had ever been. So does the loveliness of nature affect
even the most stoical of us ; and so did this rare and singular
woman enthrall me with her beauty and her song-music.
There was but one blemish I noticed in her ; it would have
•escaped me but for the fact that in bending towards her
instrument she displayed her neck very fully, and there, just
above the collar-bone I discovered a small abrasion or mark.
It seemed of recent origin, and had the appearance of a wound
but badly healed. It had a hard, gristly look about it, and
the veins in the immediate neighbourhood seemed thick and
.coarse in comparison with the extreme delicacy of the others.
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I could trace nearly every one of them beneath the skin, which
was as fair and transparent as the skin of a baby. A fault in
one so perfect beautiful attracted some attention, and I made
a mental note to ask the cause or accident which had occa-
sioned the mischief.
Presently, with a loud crash, she brought the melody to a
close, and demanded of me how I liked it.
" Please go on," I replied ; " you make me feel so happy."
" I will play no more," she responded, in a tone full of the
utmost sweetness. " May I sing ? "
" Sing ! can you sing ? Oh, do, by all means."
She asked no further permission, but bent over her harp
and struck a few cords of a sweet plaintive melody, to which
she sang the following words, in a voice which hardly seemed
to me like a voice of this world :
PROMETHIA'S SONG.
Neither sleep nor wake, oh earth,
When the morning gilds the sky ;
Kiss thy hand and welcome mirth
From the east when day draws nigh
Listen to the approach of morn
Through the rolling vault of blue ;
Tremble as the light is born,
And the day-star loves renew.
Joy, oh earth, in rising day,
Joy in light and peaceful love ;
Kiss the flowers in gentle play,
Smile to greet the sun above.
Earth subdues her hardened breast
'Neath the rosy light of morn ;
Life is welcomed from her nest,
Life and love with daylight born.
She ceased, and I must confess, though her song thrilled me
to the very depths of my being, I could not understand more
than that there was a sweet melody and a clear ringing voice.
The words seemed of another world ; and yet as I have
written them down* there is nothing extraordinary about
them, and as far as I can find out they have no special
meaning beyond their literal sense. Still, as she sang them
they affected me as no other song ever did or ever will, and I
could only fold my hands together and implore her to go on.
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Promethia. 141
She, with her harp and her song, bewitched me as a syren
might have done, and I had no choice but to worship, and
pray for the continuance of the fatal joy, if fatal it was to
prove. And when she ceased to sing, the glamour of her
voice rested upon me, and it was some time before I could
think of what to say. At length she relieved me of the
necessity of exerting myself.
" Shall I leave you now ? "
*' No, please remain and sing on for ever," I broke forth ;
u never yet have I heard such a voice. Who taught you to
sing?
She looked at me with surprise.
. " What do you mean by ' taught ' ? "
I stared at her.
lC I mean, who gave you instruction in music and singing ?
You never could have learnt to sing like that without a
master."
She appeared more and more surprised as I continued,
and at length rose from the chair and placed her hand on
my head.
''Quite cool. You are not going like them ; but you talk
so strangely. What do you mean ? Do I not sing nicely ?
Even she said I did."
" Nicely ! your singing is charming — perfection ; I could
listen to you for ever; but surely you must have had some one
to teach you the harp and the use of your voice."
She only shook her head backwards and forwards a little
sadly, and took up her harp on her hand as one might take
up a little parcel.
"I must put him away" — she smiled — "and then T will
come back and try and understand what you say. I often
hear things which puzzle me. Goodbye/'
She waved her hand to me from the door, and I could only
mutter —
" Come back soon."
She scarcely seemed to hear, or, if she did, heeded not my
words, but went straight on. Presently I heard a sound as of
voices in the passage, and one of them was unquestionably
hers. The first speaker had a shrill voice, and it struck me I
had heard it before.
w You here again ? " it said. * Is there never to be a chance
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142 Si. Jamefs Magazine.
of moving without seeing you. Not that I should have come
back Why did I come to see your horrid face again ? "
The reply came with a laugh.
*' Horrid I '—I am beautiful ; and I care not for you and
what you say. He says I am lovely, beautiful. He says so, —
do you hear ? I am lovely, and you hate me because I am
prettier than you."
After a pause —
" There can be no such thing. You are ugly, hideous, un-
natural ; and I hate you, it is true ; but you deserve nothing
but hatred. You are to me a fearful thing.- Out of my
way ; I am still mistress here."
a Indeed ! and how will you prove it ? I am mistress, and
will show you," replied the voice of Promethia. " If I were
really ugly, hideous, terrible, — if I merited no love or pity or
compassion, as you have said so often, you should do what
you like with me ; but he says I am beautiful, and for you
and what your envy says I will care no more ; I will see if
>ou are for ever to taunt me with the falsehoods you think I
shall believe. Will you confess I am lovely ?"
"Lovely indeed !" and there was a suppressed scorn which
I could distinguish in the tones of the answering voice ; " you
lovely ? — you are more hideous than the blackness of the grave.
Do you think that white skin and those fair cheeks make
beauty ? Where did you come from ? who was your mother ?
and where is now your father ? eh ? — answer that. You are
some wretch raised from a dunghill to gratify my husband's
low desires. Begone. Get back to your room, or your hole ;
never let me see your hideous face again. Why do you not
leave us altogether ? Why does not God have mercy on me
and hide your horror in the grave ?"
There was apparently a moment's pause in the dispute,
during which I imagine Promethia was trying to curb the
evil spirit rising within her. Then I heard a scuffle. Little
chance would any woman, or even man, stand with that superb
creature. Remembering how she carried the harp, I trembled
to think that she would in all probability annihilate her
opponent with one blow. I tried to rise from my bed and
see what was going on, and I managed to peer round the
corner and obtain a glimpse of them through the crack of the
<Joor Promethia had left open. They stood together, eyeing
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Promethia. 143
one another Iflce serpents, — she, the harp-bearer, holding the
instrument in her right hand, and apparently conscious of her
vast superiority, but unwilling to use violence ; and the other
meditating the figure before her, and seemingly anxious to
resolve how she might fairly attack the girl she hated. The
light of the sun streamed down on both, but the position in
which I lay prevented ray seeing them with great distinctness.
Suddenly the woman facing Promethia extended her hand
and struck the other full in the breast. With a supreme
disdain that magnificent woman turned and walked down the
passage, without even deigning to retaliate. I felt my blood
boil. I would have sprung out and fought for her if the state
of my costume had not prevented me, and the pain in my
head reminded me that I was an invalid. It seemed, however,
as if the women, or at least one of them, became conscious of
the fact that there was a spectator or an auditor. Promethia,
who had been on her way down the passage, returned and
faced the other, who stood gazing at her.
" Never strike me again if you value life," she said, simply.
* If I value life ! You have made my life of no value. Do
what you like to me. I defy you ; and such as you dare not
raiste a hand against me."
As she spoke, she struck herw enemy violently again. Pro-
methia flashed one glance at her : there was no anger in it,
but an expression such as the face of the lion wears when he
puts down his paw on his prey. She simply moved her left
hand, the right being encumbered with the harp, and ere I
could think or scream, or do anything to interfere, her oppo-
nent lay stretched senseless on the floor of my room. I tried
to jump out of bed and assist her, but my limbs refused to
support me. My heart beat violently. Was the woman
lying there murdered, or was it merely a blow ? I called for
help.
It was in vain to shout, — no one seemed to hear, — the
silence of the -grave hung around the place. Why was it I
felt so frightfully weak just when I wanted to be strong ?
My brain seemed giving way, and within all my senses were
reding, and my head buzzing just as if fifty blue-bottle flies
had made it their special resort. If something did not occur,
I felt I should swoon ; but just as I was becoming unconscious
of eveiything, the woman lying on the floor groaned and
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rose. She got on her feet slowly and with hesitation, and
advanced to me. I looked, and immediately recognised the
poor creature of the haunted house ; but her appearance was
much changed for the best ; her hair was neatly done, and her
dress was rich and well made. Her eyes were slightly less
prominent than they had been the day before, and had
otherwise greatly improved. She took my hand.
iC Forgive me breaking in on you like this. You are our
guest, and but for that horrid thing I should not" have dis-
turbed your repose. But I cannot fight her, — she is too strong
for me."
I thought I might as well satisfy my curiosity now.
" May I presume to ask who she is, and whom have I the
pleasure of speaking to ? " I said, beginning to feel myself a
little more at ease now I saw that the fearful crime I had
anticipated had been consummated in my imagination only.
"Certainly. She is, — I know not who; and I am Dr. Del-
gardo's wife," she said. "Ah, you may well stare; no one
would believe it who saw me yesterday ; but that is what she
has made me. Beware of her. She would kill me if she
dared."
I felt strongly in Promethia's favour, and was about to plead
for her earnestly, when she added,
" You may be deceived in her — she is different to men ; and
perhaps you think she is beautiful, and then loveliness covers all
faults with your sex. But she is hideous : did you not seethe
scar on her neck and the livid light in her eyes ? Ah, they
nearly drove me mad once, and they will again. Perhaps you
think I am mad now : wait and see ; you will learn her artifice
in time, — and his. Beware ! "
Speaking thus, the strange woman laid her hand on my arm
and kept hold of me for a moment ; then she wiped away the
dust from her sleeve slowly, and said,
" You will be here for some time, and I will come and see
you, but you must not tell him or her that you have seen
me.
I nodded assent.
" He would kill me too, were I not useful. I will tell you all,
but be careful. I am not free. Her I do not fear, but he is
awful, and I love him. This is the first time — the first time,
do you understand ? — the first time."
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Promethia. 145
She repeated this thrice ; and apparently satisfied with
the acquiescence I gave to the proposition, she bowed to me
and walked slowly out of the room.
I was left to puzzle over these strange occurrences all day
long as well as T might, and to find what solution I pleased
for these mysteries, and the quarrel of the two women. Pro-
methia did not return. It was five o'clock, and the nurse at my
request lowered the lamp she had lit, and left me to try and
go to sleep.
CHAPTER IX.
A TETE-A-TfcTE.
Whether it was owing to the doctor's attention or the
agreeable society of Promethia, who came to see me frequently
at intervals during the two following days, I hardly know, but
my progress towards convalescence was very rapid, and on the
morning of the third day I was prepared to rise. My kind
host entertained me most liberally while I was perforce his
guest, and did everything in his power to make the time
hang less heavily than under such circumstances it otherwise
would have done.
Of the woman of the haunted house I saw nothing more.
Promethia would come in with her harp, or by herself, and try
to amuse me in different ways, — though, to tell the truth, to
see her sitting by my couch in the perfection of her brilliant
and extraordinary beauty was sufficient diversion for me.
Insensibly I grew enamoured of her grace and perfection.
It was a fine morning, and by no means dull for the time of
year. The doctor came into my room, and spoke pleasantly
of my progress.
" I suppose/' said I, " I may think of getting up presently ?"
" Oh yes, by all means, if you feel equal to the effort ; and
I shall have the pleasure of entertaining you to a quiet little
dinner to-night, if you do not mind dining alone with a
bachelor."
I started at the word.
" I thought you were a married man ? "
" May I ask why ? " he answered curiously.
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I hardly knew what to tell him. Ha4 he some reason for
denying the existence of the woman I had seen? or was
she not telling the truth when she styled herself his wife ?
It seemed but fair to him to speak frankly, and ascertain
whether or not I was labouring under a delusion ; accordingly
I said,
" A lady paid me a visit the day before yesterday, and I
inferred from what she said that she was the mistress of the
establishment, and offered her my thanks accordingly."
" Oh," he answered, with a smile, " the mad woman ! — she has
an idea she is my wife, and she raves about it. I ought to
have thanked you for restoring her to me, for she is one of my
pet patients. She had been lost for some time, and returned
on the day you came here in a frightful condition. Poor thing,
I believe she had been starving herself. It is strange what
lunatics do : there is no accounting for their conduct ; despite
the experience of years, I never know what form the malady
will take with some of them."
His manner was convincing enough, but I had my doubts
about the truth of his statements, notwithstanding. It seemed
strange that a woman should get such an idea into her head ;
and then when she had spoken to me, she had not much the
appearance or manner of a lunatic. I must confess that the
behaviour of Promethia, and the struggle between them, led
me to think that there was a possible motive for the conduct
of the worthy doctor, in spite of his mild and gentlemanly
exterior and polished address, and the way in which he took
everything as if it were all right and a mere matter of course.
I kept my suspicions to myself, and thanked him for his
kindness indifferently.
" I shall be very glad to join the dinner if I am able to sit
up all day. I feel wonderfully strong and well this morning."
"You are blessed with a fine constitution. I sent to your
hotel for your clothes yesterday, and you will find them ready
for your use. I shall be very busy all day, but Promethia will
amuse you. You are quite sure you will not succumb to her
attractions ? "
He asked the question lightly and with a smile, but I could
see that he was anxious, though he had no reason from any-
thing I had done or said to suppose that I was at all attracted
towards the extraordinary being. Now I flatter myself that
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Promttkuu 147
when I choose I am an adept in concealing my real feelings ;
as a rule I never do choose, because deceit is cowardice, and
cowardice is a thing unknown in America. We are brave as
a race, or as individuals. Fear is not the vice of the model
republic or its sons ; but love,, or feeling and passion such as
mine was rapidly becoming towards Promethia, makes one
very anxious to conceal its existence ; and accordingly I re-
plied,
" My dear sir, she amuses me with her accomplishments —
she sings and plays well, and has some conversational power ;
besides she is strictly original, and that in itself is a great
charm ; but as for being influenced by her attractions — bah !
moonshine ! twaddle! impossible ! absurd ! — I am an American,
and not a fool ! "
" Leave your friends to say that ; however I am satisfied as
it is. I am so much engaged that I cannot be your companion.
If you had come a few weeks later, I might have had another
person to entertain you, but he has not arrived yet"
My curiosity prompted me to ask,
" Is Promethia — she won't let me call her anything else — an
Englishwoman ? n
He laughed the wickedest, wildest laugh I ever heard from
human lips. It quite startled and shocked me, and made
me nervous — a thing I had never before been in the presence
of man — as he said,
" An Englishwoman ? Ask her her parentage, or wait till you
discover it You have not learned everything yet, my friend."
The cynical expression of his face, the caustic bitterness of
his tone, the subtle conceit with which he made this assertion,
as if he were a sort of being superior to everything and every-
body, and as if he had something which nobody else possessed,
and which was unique, — the self-sufficiency with which he
seemed to insist upon this, and the way in which he treated
my idea of her being an Englishwoman, made a deep im-
pression on my mind, and one which was not to be effaced.
He noticed it, and tried to turn the conversation oft
"She does not look English, but then you know she is
peculiar, and dresses peculiarly, and then n He paused ;
excuses failed him, and he grew uncomfortable beneath my
fixed glance. " I wish you a pleasant morning," he said ; " and
please make yourself quite at home, and ask for anything you
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148 Si. James 's Magazine.
have an inclination for. There are plenty of books, and some
pictures and photographs; you will find music also, if you
play or sing."
He left the room with a nod, and as soon as I had break-
fasted I dressed without assistance, and felt sufficiently well to
leave my room and seek the sitting-room which the nurse
indicated as the one I was to occupy.
And presently Promethia came in, as I sat in the large arm-
chair which had been wheeled into a corner of the room
on my account. Her hair was braided over her fair high brow,
and bound as usual with a light fillet, but this morning the
fillet was of golden cord, and set off the beauty of her coiffure to
perfection ; she wore a dress, too, of a somewhat lighter and
prettier material than on former occasions and as she came up
to me she put her hand in mine and inquired after my health
with the most charming affectionate manner. I returned the
pressure of her hand, and expressed myself pleased to be able
to see her in my restored state of health.
The room was a good-sized one, and furnished elegantly,
with some regard to the requirements of taste ; the paper a
bright flock, and the furniture of light mahogany, relieved by
one or two side-pieces of colored and fancy wood-work ; the
windows were hung with damask curtains, and one very large
looking-glass, with a sculptured frame, occupied the whole
side of the room where I expected to find a fireplace. The
room was warmed with hot water, and the temperature was
most agreeable and even.
I had risen to receive my visitor, and she pressed me to be
seated, and, to make me obey her, sat down herself by the
side of my chair. The doctor's words had roused my curiosity,
and at the risk of being rude I determined to make an effort
to discover what there appeared to be some reason for wishing
to conceal. Where did this exquisite woman come from ?
and how was her wonderful strength, of which I every now and
then had a sample, though she gave it unconsciously, to be
accounted for ? But my nature was entirely subdued before
Promethia, and I could not, try as I would, speak as was my
wont. She had a subtle influence over me. I was like a
different man in her presence. The brightness of her eyes
pierced my heart ; the beauty of her face, and the graceful
charm of her unconscious manner, made me her slave, her
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Promethia. 149
admirer. For the first time in my life something human
controlled me. Was she human ? At times I almost doubted
the evidence of my senses, and imagined myself standing
before some fairy creation, and not a creature of warm flesh
and blood. But then, when I praised her, and when her gaze
rested on mine, there came into her cheek the sweet blush of
virgin modesty, and who could doubt that sign of woman's
noble nature ?
Now I hardly knew how to shape my questions without
offending what appeared to be a most sensitive nature ; and
then, supposing she grew angry and I lost her regard, how
should I win it again ?
" My kind friend," I said to her, in as soft a tone as I could
command, " I have been thinking of you much all night, and
I resolved to ask a favor at your hands this morning."
She flushed up, pleased and delighted.
" Tell me what it is, and see how gladly I will do it. Shall
I sing you the songs you like ? I have been getting some
and practising them, as you told me I ought to do. I hope I
shall please you with them. I have tried, — indeed I have ! "
I smiled at her eagerness to meet my wishes.
"No, it was not that You are so good and kind, you
anticipate my wishes, though why you take such an interest
in a stranger I cannot imagine. It is of yourself I want to- (*3 ^k,
speak to you. May I ? " ^ * ■
She hardly seemed" to understand at first ; but as my
meaning dawned upon her, her face clouded a little, though
only for a moment. The next she clasped my hand wildly,
and fell at my feet.
" Forgive me ; I wronged you. You would not grieve me.
Say what I am to tell you, and I will do anything you wish."
" Rise," I said, helping her. " My dear young lady, I would
not give you pain for the world. All I meant to ask you was,
who were your parents, and whether you belong or not to this
country ? "
I spoke very gently, but she took in my words, and a sad
expression spread over her face as she answered, very slowly,
" It is strange you should ask that. Am I not enough in
myself? You said I was beautiful. What can I do? I
cannot tell you, for I do not know. I was ; I am. I can say
no more."
VOL. I. 3itizedJ)^Cn
150 5/. Jameses Magazine.
She stood up straight before me in all the majesty of her
unsullied beauty. It was a sight never to be forgotten. That
fair and stately woman, silently looking far more than she
had said ; wrapping up herself in an impenetrable mystery,
and yet so desirable that any man might have fallen at her
feet and wooed her, as she was, for herself only, without caring
to ask more. She seemed to feel herself so great, that she
asked no origin. She looked as though to her there was no
past, and as if the grandeur of her present had written itself
upon her magnificent brow and noble features. I looked
and marvelled. She grew a little pale under my glance* but
that was all. Not a muscle of her countenance betrayed
emotion ; not a limb twitched ; not a breath was disturbed
from its regular course ; and yet I, sitting there, hoped with
a maddening hope that she loved me as her deep mystic
nature could only love, with the full intensity of her entire
being.
My heart throbbed and beat wildly enough. My fancy
sported about her golden-brown hair, and threw itself into
her form and features, making her to me a something bright
and beautiful, and of a world more glorious than this. I was
almost worshipping her as a goddess, and ready, if she asked
me, to fall prostrate before her. But she neither moved nor
spoke. The clock ticked out the minutes, the canary bird
chirped and twittered in the window, the sun came round the
corner and peeped into the room, and there we were staring
at one another, and neither knowing what to say to break the
scene, which to me was full of so maddening an intensity, and
to her — alas ! I could not read her heart far enough to say
what she felt.
And she was the first to speak ; but only on my account,
not on her own. The words came slowly :
" You are grieved I cannot tell you all you wish to know ?
I see it in your face. But must I be of some country to win
your care ? "
Why did she shrink from the word love ? Her eyes said it
plainly enough ; but I doubt if she quite knew what it
meant I replied :
" Not so. I asked out of curiosity, and from a desire to
know what country gave birth to so much loveliness. I do
not know why it is, but all my wisdom is gone before you,
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Promethia. 151
Promethia, and you are my wisdom, and my light, and my
aim."
I bowed my head on my breast I could not say this and
face her eyes. Gently she touched me on the cheek.
" Dear friend, you are the first one who spo ke to me kindly
How grieved I am that I cannot do what you wish. I will
ask him."
" Oh, no," I exclaimed eagerly, " not on any account. I do
not want to know anything of you but from your own lips.
If you will, and it will not give you pain, sit down and tell me
what you know of your early life. It is because it concerns
you that I am interested in hearing it"
I held out my hand to her, and she took it, and sank down
again on to the chair by my side. She remained quiet for some
moments, and then began to talk freely, but wildly, thus :
" I was here when I first remember. He came for me. He
said it was time to get up. He took my hand. He said I
was his, I do not know. I never liked him. He does like
me — I think, I know, I am sure — but I do not like him. He
hurt me here." She put her hand on to the mark I had
noticed before at the side of her neck. " I did not see him
do it. I believe he did it. He took me into this room. He
said I must love and obey him. I could not understand what
he meant. Then came that other one. She called me some-
thing. She used bad, ugly words — I do not know why. She
said I was — oh, so ugly, and black, and wicked, I who never
hurt her or anything until she was so cruel to me. I felt I was
strong. I am. I can do a great deal. He cannot do as
much. I was vexed. I did not like her to say I was ugly. I
do not know why, but it hurt me here," she put her hand on
her heart. " He came and stayed, and said she should not
come near me, and put me in another room. I was there
some time, and then she came. Oh ! she called me bad and
ugly. I was angry. I struck her gently. I did not mean to
hurt her, but for her not to say so again. She ran away with
blood. I think I must have hurt her much. She came again
the other day. I was angry again. You had said I was
beautiful, and I did not care. I liked you, and I was happy.
But she came. I hit her hard. I have not seen her since.
Are you angry with me ? I will be good, very good."
She suddenly broke off her disconnected narrative, and
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152 5/. James's Magazine.
looked at me imploringly. My gaze had gone faf away. \t
appeared to me the beaiftiful creature by my side was without
a mind — evidently one of the doctor's patients, whom he had
introduced to me for some experimental purpose. But yet
her eyes did not betray want of sense. What was the reasoo
of her strange behaviour and conversation ? It was a sore
puzzle, and I saw no solution except by patience.
Presently the door opened slowly, as if the person entering
feared to disturb a sleeper. We were interrupted in a moment,,
and each sat as if we had been discussing the most ordinary
subject in the world. The doctor it was who broke in upon
us thus cautiously, and I had ray own opinion of the reason
for his sly intrusion upon our titc-d-rtte.
CHAPTER X.
MORE OF THE DOCTOR.
The doctor seemed in no way concerned at our apparent
friendly intercourse, but bowed to me and apologised for
the intrusion.
" I left an instrument in this room which I want. Excuse
me interrupting you. Promethia sings well.,,
41 Indeed she does/' said I, regarding Promethia with
wonder, for the girl had fixed her eyes on the ground when
he entered, and to all appearance remained utterly oblivious
of everything but his presence. I was forgotten — she sat
fastened as by a spell to the chair she occupied ; and though
he neither spoke to her nor looked at her as far as I could
see, her whole being seemed under his control.
He went to a drawer and took out a small instrument case
whence he produced a knife. He brought it across to show me.
I was standing up now, and with my face towards the
window. As I stood there he gazed at my ear in a most
extraordinary manner. He held the knife in his hand and
drew it across his thumb to feel the state of the blade. It
was a peculiar weapon, made of the brightest steel and curved
on the outside, so that from top to bottom it nearly resembled
a half-moon. He seemed inclined to slice off my ear, and I
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Promethia. 153
felt a thrill of fear go through me. Promethia was sitting still
but her eyes watched him closely. It looked as if some fierce
struggle, held in control, was going on within her ; she watched
him cat-like, and he knew it ; but he gazed on me with a reso-
lute purpose in his cruel eyes. Never have I seen a man look
so. He drew near me and advanced his hand in the direction of
the side of my head, as if bent upon murderously assaulting my
ear — from what motive I could not possibly imagine. It was
a terrible moment ; but the next I felt within me a desire to
resist — though how to resist I did not know. I faced him, and
was no longer terrified. My bearing saved me. He started
and drew back, while Promethia suddenly rose and stood
between us.
" Not him," she said ; "he has been kind."
The doctor laughed, said he was only in fun, and wanted to
try my pluck ; he put the knife carefully in a little case and
walked slowly from the room ; — then, without call from him,
as if moved by an irresistible impulse, Promethia glided
slowly from before me and followed his footsteps.
What passed between them I never knew, only when Pro-
methia came back her brow was flushed, and she put her hand
on my head with a —
« You will be safe now if you are brave. Be careful. I will
help you if you need me."
"Beautiful Promethia," I replied, my passion for her
getting the better of my reason, " I love you, and I care for
no man. Will you let me love you ? "
It was evident she did not understand me ; she smiled and
played with one of the buttons of my coat, and said it was
pretty, while with the other hand she pointed to the sun and
called that a lamp of fire and fury ; then she sat down, and
said she would sing, and altogether ignored the fact that I
was anxiously waiting the result of my question. " Perhaps
she cannot love," I thought indefinitely. Yet as I looked at
the bright eyes, and the fair cheeks, and the perfectly de-
veloped womanly figure, I could not believe that she was
deficient in sentiment, affection, or passion : besides, had she
not evinced for me, a stranger, an amount of solicitude which
proved her to be blessed with a good heart ? While these
things were puzzling me, she had seated herself at the piano
and was playing one of the most lovely melodies to which I
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154 Si. James* s Magazine.
had ever listened. It was sweet and plaintive, but full and
strong, — like those airs which contain all the power of
German music, with the grace of thought and the diviner
harmony of the Italian compositions. Mix together Mozart
and Verdi, or Beethoven and Bellini, touch up with the soul
of grandeur belonging to a capable musician, and you can form
some conception of the sort of air to which I listened. It
grew upon me ; it chained me to the spot ; it entered my
soul, and raised it from the earth. No longer was I a scarcely
recovered invalid lying in an arm-chair and agitated in mind
by the occurrences around and before me. No longer did I
look on Promethia and think of her as a being extraordinary
by birth and nature, and yet a woman to be loved ; but she
became to me a something not of this world alone, but of a
grander, vaster habitation. My weariness of life wore away,
I lived again ; and while the melody lasted I was a happy
man, but happy with bright and noble ideas, and not with
the things of this world. Where had she learnt to play —
whence had she obtained this glorious gift of melody ? There
was no doubt of the originality of her genius. It was glorious,
— it spoke of God, and to my heart. She continued playing for
some time, during which I listened in charmed silence. At
length her fingers appeared tired by the labour of striking the
keys, and she rose and asked if she should read to me. To
the proposition I consented readily enough, for the effect of
her music had been most pleasurable, and I was in a sort of
drowsy mood, in which the soft voice of a woman reading
would be highly acceptable. She went to the bookcase and
took down a volume of Scott. Seating herself near the
window, she began to read in the sweetest of voices and with
a melody attuned to the sense in every particular. So the
morning passed away, and after luncheon I saw no more of my
fair companion. She said I wanted rest; and, indeed, soon
after she left the room my feelings disposed me very much to
a nap, and I slept comfortably enough on a beautiful sofa
until late in the afternoon. When I awoke I was filled with
visions and sentimental fancies about this girl ; she seemed to
float before me like some fair spirit, and I was almost inclined
to search the house for her, so necessary to my comfort and
peace had her presence become.
I had never been an impressionable man, but the feelings*
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Promethia.
*55
I experienced for Promethia were quite new to me. If it was
love, and if love could account for every desire agitating me,
all I can say is that love is a very delightful thing, and one
which has been rather barbarously handled of late years, for
to my mind it was nothing but a pure feeHng of delight in
beholding her, in listening to her voice, or in the mere fact
of having her near me, even for a moment. And surely such
a feeling for one who had experienced so dull a lifetime was
worth anything ; but I did not regard it at all from that
point of view. To me it was a state over which I had no
control The power of love had established itself over reason
and reflection, and for this woman I would have braved a
thousand deaths, or gone through any sufferings that life
could inflict. Who is there — poet, dreamer, or philosopher —
who can account for love ? I question very much whether any
reason ever given. goes further than this — that there are
certain known phases of the passion; but its origin, its
vagaries, its end, its means, its ways, are as unknown as those
of life itself. Let us not analyse them further, but rest con-
tent : they are ours for blessing, if we use them well. Un-
certainty is one of the great ministrants to love, and the
tender passion ofttimes perishes with the success of its object;
but I felt this would not be so with me, and Ilay there in the
deepening twilight thinking how fair the prospects of my life
would be now if I could make this woman mine and succeed
in transporting her to the West. After all, that was my home,
and thither, when I thought of joy, my heart turned with
a feeling of the fondest affection — not to say remorse — at
having neglected to think of my country in a proper light for
so long. I felt that with this woman for mine, life would have
object and aim. Her nature, so extraordinary, must possess
a deep vein of feeling, if I could touch it ; and she was so
simple, that I should have much to teach, and she much to
learn. I was arranging everything to my own complete satisfac-
tion, and had even fixed in thought upon the very spot
in which my airy castle should be erected, when I was roused
by a servant, who announced that the dinner would be ready
in a few minutes, and would I like to refresh myself.
I went upstairs to my room, and felt very much better than in
the early part of the day. Certainly Dr. Delgardo knew^
how to treat' his patients. Upon returning to the room L
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156 Si. Jameis Magazine.
had occupied, I found the doctor standing there alone, and
apparently in deep thought His hand was pressed to his
brow, and his back bent over some object lying before him
on the table. It was, I saw, a little book, and he had great
difficulty in making out its contents.
" My dear Mr. Harte," he said, the moment I made my
appearance known, " can you read Arabic ? "
" Unfortunately not,"* I replied.
" Ah, it is a pity ; this is a volume on the subject of the
interment of the dead, in order that their souls may be easily
accessible afterwards ; and from what I can understand, it
recommends embalming. It is in truth a very curious work,
and illustrates most strongly the firm hold upon the eastern
mind of the belief in the immortality of the soul."
Before I had time to reply dinner was announced by a
female servant Apparently the doctor employed no males
in his household, and I must confess I did not miss them.
I care very little about show in domestic arrangements ; and
as far as my experience of private establishments goes, I have
found that female servants do much better than men servants,
except for out-of-door work and answering door-bells. The
doctor seemed to be of the same opinion. We found the table
laid for three, and soon after I, at the doctor's invitation, was
seated, Promethia entered the room and sat down in silence.
The table was a round one, and consequently I cannot say
that one occupied the head and the other the tail, but the
doctor and myself were almost opposite, and the lady towards
the clock, and between us. She was dressed in a most beau-
tiful and becoming costume, and one which suited her mar-
vellously well. In texture the dress was of the best silk, and
the colour, a pale blue, harmonised with the style of her counte-
nance and complexion perfectly. The dress was made very
plainly, and though the color was a little light for a dinner
costume, she did not seem overdressed in it. I do not think
she would have appeared so in anything she wore, for a
native grace and dignity of manner carried off every par-
ticular, even to the peculiar style in which her hair was
braided over her fair temples. For ornament, her neck was
circled by a beautiful chain of fine gold, to which a diamond
drop was suspended, and her collar was clasped by a brooch
of pure white stones, off which the light flashed magnifi-
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Promdhia. 157
cently as she turned or moved her body. Lace cuffs dis-
played the whiteness of her arms and the plain gold bands
which she wore upon them, and her costume might be termed
complete with the delicate rose which graced her bosom.
The dress was made high, however, and the scar at the side
of her throat hidden by it
And while she sat there in utter unconsciousness of her
wonderful beauty, and I afraid lest my feelings should
betray themselves, the doctor remained silent, and apparently
unconscious of her presence, except that he exhibited a sense
of unusual satisfaction on his smiling countenance. But it
was not so with the girl ; she seemed under a sort of control
or fear of him, and did not speak. Silently she eat and drank,
and listened to what we said, but to her lips came no words ;
she was almost like a spectre at a wedding feast, — dumb and
grave, with her marble countenance ever towards the doctor,
and her lips closed, save when she was eating. Not even a
smile broke the serenity of her features ; not a laugh, not a
sigh ; she was still, and yet perfectly beautiful in her stillness. _- -^
For some time I was too much puzzled by her silence and /jk r3$?\
the expression of her features, which I watched with the ^ ^ \j
greatest anxiety, to address myself to either of my com- ^ 'i^\ v
panions, and the doctor was the first to break the monotony " s
of a voiceless dinner-party.
"You see, Mr. Harte," — and his first words positively
startled me, so absorbed was I in contemplating Promethia, —
" what comes of having a fine constitution, unbroken by ex-
cesses. Few men would have recovered from such injuries
as those you received in so short a time, I assure you."
I recovered my presence of mind, and answered with a
smile,
"It depends very much upon the skill of their medical
advisers. "
"To some extent; but we can only help nature. You
have, I should imagine, generally avoided contact with un-
healthy persons ; and in my house I always take care that
my patients shall be with healthy people only."
"I think my fair nurse yonder deserves a good deal of
commendation," I put in gallantly. " To get well requires that
the brain should be at rest and well amused."
"True, and health of mind is a fine medicine for the brain as
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158 Si. James* s Magazine.
well as the body. But the chief thing I always insist upon is
health in those around the invalid. It is most important. To
the want of it I often attribute the failure of the curative powers
of nature, in cases where an invalid is nursed by members of
his own family, whose health and spirits are more or less
affected by his illness. To such a one I always say, ' Have a
paid nurse, and a healthy one/ "
" Do you really attach so much importance to the mere
fact of healthy surroundings ? "
" Indeed I do, and far more than many of my colleagues.
I will tell you why, if you care to hear."
I expressed myself most edified by his discourse, for I was
really anxious to get at his thoughts ; and it struck me he
might be led to speak freely if one started on a subject with
which he was familiar.
"Very well/' he continued. "The fact is that not half
enough attention has hitherto been paid to the all-important
item in the economy of nature of which I have been, I may
say, the discoverer. Most of our scientific men are em-
pirics, and do not believe in that which they cannot see or
readily account for; and notwithstanding the advancement
recently made in medicine, and the curative art especially,
one great principle of nature has been almost entirely over-
looked. Do you know the influence of one living body on
another ? because I may tell you that life, as life, has never
received a fair amount of attention from even our most dis-
tinguished doctors, and scientific discoverers in the art of
medicine."
I intimated that I had little knowledge on these points.
" The first thing to be considered is life itself. We are in
utter ignorance upon the important question of the origin and
cause of life ; neither am I going to enlighten you on my dis-
coveries in that ground of research ; but I may tell you thus
much, that the mystery of life, and its origin and conditions
of its establishment in tissues, is a thing capable of elucidation^
and that though years of patient study may be utterly barren
of result, there is a possibility of success. Life existing in
flesh and blood is a thing apart from all else, and living tissue
has this property, apart from every other material quality, it has
a knowledge of co-existing life entirely apart from sense."
I stared at him.
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Prornethia. 159
" You may stare, — but it is true/'
Here the servant entered with the last course, and he
paused for fc, few moments.
CHAPTER XL
ADVANCED SCIENCE.
As soon as the table was cleared, and the desert handed
round, the doctor requested me to join him in a glass of most
excellent claret, and continued the argument thus :
" You will understand what I mean most readily if I give
you an illustration. Here is one of the experiments by which
I established the fact of which I was previously quite certain.
A man was placed on a bed, with his senses completely
obscured ; his hands were tied, his head bound so that his ears
could receive no impressions, and his eyes see nothing of what
was passing around him ; he was also rendered incapable of
motion, and he had no knowledge of what was about to be
done. Then I introduced alongside of him, but without
contact, a cold corpse. Not a demonstration of its presence
escaped him. In place of this I next substituted a living man
in a state of complete coma, who neither betrayed his presence
by sound or motion or breathing. The other instantly became
aware of the presence of the man, the living body. A female
produced a more marked demonstration of knowledge of a
presence. Now these experiments, and others of a similar
nature, which have been tried at various times and under
all varieties of circumstances, clearly established the fact that
one living being was affected simply by the presence of vi-
tality. I have also tried the same thing with animals, invari-
ably with a uniform result ; and even plants, if carefully watched,
will demonstrate the truth of my theory. My conclusion was
that life has a certain surrounding of its own, which establishes-
its hold on whatever it comes in contact with in a similar con-
dition. This accounted for every phenomena that had hitherta
puzzled me. Observe, then, that all things possessing vitality
live as it were a little outside themselves, and this explains the
existence of ghosts, and the way in which they communicate
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i6o> S/. Jameses Magazine.
their presence and entity to those they visit. They are living
principles ; and though not material, are capable of impressing
knowledge upon other living principles, without resort to the
mediums of sensation. Do you follow me ? "
" Certainly I do," replied I, though astonished almost out
of my senses ; " but does that explanation satisfy the require-
ments of most ghost stories ? "
" Not entirely ; but then you must understand that when
people narrate their ghostly experiences, they do so in their
own language, and color them up from that most fatal faculty
for scientific inquiry, the imagination. Thus what they say
is not really what occurred, but what they imagine occurred.
Of course this applies to real ghost stories, which I do not say
are true ; but I suggest that if they are true, this fact, which
I discovered and demonstrated in the way I have told you,
clearly accounts for them."
" Indeed," I replied, intimating that I should like him to
continue.
He obeyed my intimation, and proceeded, getting warm on
his subject as he continued : —
" Up till recent times, men had made very little progress in
the science of life. A man by name Buchanan, nominally a
phrenologist, made considerable advances beyond his fellows ;
but he got a theory into his head, and when once a scientist
gets a theory of his own, farewell advance — at least, I have
found it so. Now I learnt a good deal from Buchanan, and
also from Gall and the German school of phrenologists ; but
I was not content to leave it there. I found that each and
every man is more or less susceptible to the influence of his
neighbour, independently of what we call ordinary contact, —
that is to say, if you go and sit in that chair, and I come into
the room unseen and unheard, you will become aware of my
presence as an animated being without having any direct
knowledge of who I am or of what I am. One living body-
receives an impression from another from something external
to it, which, though external, is a part of itself ; and thus it is
that living objects affect one another without consciousness,
and without even being aware that they have done so. Life
is a subtle thing, and given life all else is easy. If life can
exist without being attached to any definite form or substance,
it is perfectly possible that it can impress other living things,
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Promethia. 161
though they are in substance, and the result of the impression
may develop in various ways. But to return from the doubt-
ful to the certain. I have found the most marked results from
allowing the healthy to associate with the sick, apart from
what we call the contagion of disease. The young are always
more or less subject to such an influence from the old. It is
a common practice to make young people sleep with aged
members of the family. I have frequently seen children de-
pressed and dull and heavy after a night spent with an aged
person. Why is this ? The child's vital essence is influenced
and drawn away by the other, and the spirit of the child is
depressed accordingly. But in all cases of illness you wilt
find the effect yet more marked. Always surround patients
with health ; nature requires it, and beautiful nature is always
right Now it is a curious thing that inanimate objects possess
not the least power of this kind over one another. If two
stones or two dead things lie together for years, they never
seem to alter or to be in any way affected by the proximity.
It is true if you pile a quantity of dead meat together it be-
comes putrid much quicker than if left in single pieces, and so
with some other things; but that is because the contagion
comes from germs which multiply more rapidly in the con-
genial atmosphere produced by the accumulation of matter fit
to be preyed upon, and not because the substance of the one
dead thing affects the others. Ah ! I should like to show you
what life is ; I should like to take you into the mysteries and
secrets of nature, and explain to you her workings and her
power, traced down to its last retreat. Then you would see
strange things ; then ?ou would know what man is, and what
, man can do; and you would see how naked this whole world
lies to the gaze of him who has looked in the face of creation,
and seen the mask removed from the visage of the iron and
the gold ; from the ruby lips and the glowing cheeks ; from
the naked arm and the heaving breast ; from the eyes and the
ears, and the marvellous contrivances by which Nature has
hidden up her handiwork from the discerning soul of her last
and greatest production. Nature made man to be her slave,
and he will soon be her master."
He paused with a wild light in his eye, but it was the light
of a great triumph. I was positively awed, before him : he
seemed like a man discovering the secrets forbidden to the
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1 62 S/. Jameis Magazine.
human race, — the secrets which Almighty God has wrapt away
and hidden from our gaze in mercy and love ; and it was to
me as if *n impious hand, with conceit and wicked arrogance,
were raising up the curtain of heaven and showing the things
therein with a grin of ridicule upon his face. It was as if he
defied the hidden mysteries of nature to conceal themselves
any longer from his restless and ambitious mind ; and he
appeared to me to be glorifying in having attained to some
knowledge which no man ought to covet. Perhaps these
thoughts were more suggested by his air and manner, and
the tone in which he spoke, than by his actual words ; but
you must figure to yourselves the situation, with that one
witness beside myself in the room, — after dinner, with the
shadows of the gas-lamp making the room bright but night-
like with its brightness ; and that pale, fair woman, with all
her beauty hushed into an awful silence; and this man by my
side, holding me, whose nerves were still somewhat disturbed
by illness, under a dread control, .while he poured forth the
result of his workings in the face of nature, and made me
believe that he had descended (or ascended, if you prefer it),
and found out the last discovery that humanity dares to attempt.
As he sat back in his chair with the smile upon his face — a
smile at once handsome but cold, and as cruel as that of a
basilisk, as impenetrable as that of a sphinx, — I felt a thrill
through every pulse, — that sensation of horror that I had
experienced when in the room by the side of the wax model
the Thing of Terror had risen and moved towards me. I
trembled, — a sensation strange indeed for me, — a cold sweat
seemed to be rising to my brow, and my knees shook against
the leg of the table ; I believe a fainting fit was coming over
me, and I should have swooned, but suddenly I became aware
that Promethia had turned her gaze upon me, and it acted
like a restorative to my courage. Slowly something seemed to
whisper —
" If you quail before him, he will have the victoiy, and the
victory will be fatal to you." •
The whisper gave me courage to nerve myself. I steadied
my glance first upon Promethia and then on my host ; and
the fear and the terror passed as I concentrated my gaze full
upon him, and replied to his cruel look by one of resolution
and determination. He seemed disconcerted, as he had been
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Promethia. 163
in the morning, and on my part I felt relieved. But his pre-
sence of mind never forsook him. An excuse, an explanation
was always on his tongue ; and he even persuaded me out of
my own fixed belief that he was dangerous to me,
"Your head is not strong, Mr. Harte, notwithstanding the
care we have taken of you. You must have rest and nursing
for another day or two, and then we shall see what you are fit
for. My conversation made you think. Too much thinking
is a very exhaustive process."
I felt constrained to answer,
" Perhaps you are right, and it will be as well for me to
retire early, if you will excuse me."
At any rate, if I went to bed, I should escape from the eyes
of this man, and be able to collect my thoughts a little, before
the morning brought me into his presence again.
" Certainly, if you feel tired ; and indeed you look weary.
I must give myself a good scolding for keeping you up so
late. I will make it up to you by extra attention unless you
prefer Promethia to me, in which case she can attend to
everything you require, for I have taught her more than you
would imagine."
Narrowly he watched me as I answered, but I was fore-
warned by the eyes of Promethia, which seemed to have found
out a way of speaking to me in perfect confidence, and they
said, " Be careful ; he is watching you."
" My dear doctor," I said, " you are so kind to me that I
could not be more or even as comfortable in my own home.
No attendance but yours will give me pleasure. If ever it
lies in my4power, I only hope to be able to show you one-half
the attention and kindness you have shown me."
He rose and smiled.
" You will have a good night, Mr. Harte, and in the morning
I should like to be able to amuse you, and will endeavour to
be your companion for some time. Would you like to do
anything in particular to-morrow that you can think of now ?"
" There is one thing, if you could do it without breaking
through your rules," I returned, prompted by curiosity ; " I
should very much like to make the round of your house and
see some of your patients, if you would take me."
" My dear sir, with the greatest pleasure in the world. My
house is at present in an excellent condition to be seen, for I
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1 64 St. James's Magazine.
have one or two most interesting patients in charge, and, with
but a few exceptions, no very bad cases. We will consider
it an appointment. Promethia, please see Mr. Harte to his
room, and return."
As he ended his good-night with this little phrase to hen
his voice changed again. He spoke to her as to a menial,
and yet not with any energy in his tone. Simple " Do this "
it was, and no more. She did not seem to mind it the least,
but took up a candle which was outside on the table in the
passage, and walked slowly up the stairs, followed by me.
The doctor came to the first landing, and then shook hands
with me, saying,
"Good-night, my patient ; a pleasant night to you."
" Good-night," replied I, shaking hands with him cordially,
as from his frankness I could not help doing.
Promethia walked on before me, and threaded the long
passages with ease and grace in every movement. It was
wonderful to see the way in which she walked, — so free, so
firm, like the footing of a mountain nymph or some exquisite
dancer, — and her figure, with the taper in her hand, was before
me like the guiding lamp of some good and beautiful angel.
Prosaic enough, in all conscience, a woman taking a candle
and showing me the way to my room ; but then the woman —
ah, there was nothing prosaic about her, but something beyond
the praise of man, and yet not so, — something naturally beauti-
ful, but rather too beautiful and perfect to be of nature. Very
fair she looked again as she flung open the door of my room
and stood on the threshold for me to pass, and but for the
aspect of her marble countenance, and the want of inviting
light and love in her eyes, I had clasped her in my arms, and
then and for ever made her mine. It was not to be : her noble
brow appalled me, and my passion, great as it was, conquered
my other inclinations.
I passed on, I touched her hand, I whispered "Good-
night, Promethia," I felt her breath on my cheek as I brushed
by her, and then, without a word, with only a look of kindness
and a shade perhaps of warning in the beautiful eyes, she
closed the door and left me.
(To be continued,)
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The Author of "Victor Lescar."
By GEORGE BARNETT SMITH.
^NE of the most striking developments in English
literature during the present generation is that of
fiction ; and, whether for good or for evil, woman
is conspicuously associated with this develop-
ment "George Eliot" has shown us how the highest art
can adorn the novelist's vocation ; but we are compelled
also to own that, at the opposite extremity, the sex of which
she is so illustrious an ornament has supplied us with works
of a mischievous and pernicious character. Nevertheless,
the fact remains that in the domain of fiction woman has
been able to assert her right to a position equal with that
of man ; and we cannot but express our satisfaction that she
has discovered this amongst other outlets for her faculties,
in an age which, though enlightened in other matters, is
still disfigured by much prejudice as to the true and proper
sphere of woman. The fact that one of the most distinguished
poets of the past generation (Mrs. Browning), and the most
celebrated writer of fiction in the present, both belong to the
female sex, should be a sufficient demonstration that that sex
labours under no intellectual disability — so long asserted by
the defenders of preconceived notions and the upholders of ex-
ploded theories. The hypothesis of a radical mental inequality
between the sexes is one that is rapidly being surrendered.
It would be easy to prove — if the operation were desirable,
or necessary— that the intellect of woman is specially adapted
for the production of works of fiction. We will, however,
instance only one or two qualities in which, in this respect,
she enjoys a superiority over man. And first must be cited
her sympathy. It will not be denied that this is quicker and
more acute than that of man. She is sensitive at almost every
pore of her being. Her intuitiveness is marvellous : by it she
reasons, and by it she suffers herself to be led. This extra-
ordinary reading of character is one of the most valuable
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1 66 St. James's Magazine
adjuncts of the novelist's art. Woman thus obtains by intui-
tion what she has not the opportunity of obtaining by exami-
nation. Combined with this faculty, also, is that of observation,
precise and minute. The masculine intellect may be facile
princeps in describing the stronger passions of human nature —
in depicting the storms which rage upon the bosom of the
ocean; but woman can paint the gentlest ripples upon its
surface. The exhibition of the minor emotions and the more
placid feelings, which would escape the eye of man, are read
by her with singular penetration, and reproduced with startling
fidelity. A third quality, that of artistic grace and finish, is
requisite for the production of the novel ; and in this respect
also we should expect woman to show her equality with her
masculine co-workers. She has an innate sense of order and fit-
ness— two of the moving springs in all successful art; and these
materially assist her in the furtherance of, and happy issue to
any labours in which she may be engaged. Other qualities*
will readily suggest themselves as aids to the exercise of the
imaginative faculty in fiction ; but these are the most essential
in the acquirement of any durable fame. In proportion as
they are defective or abundant will the work achieved attain
a mean or a lofty range. It is these traits which give the
requisite delicacy and the requisite force, which set characters
in their true light, giving neither undue prominence to weak-
ness nor undue power to strength.
When these qualities are displayed, it becomes the duty of
the critic to give to them that consideration and acceptance
which they demand from him, while at the same time he does
not neglect to distinguish those defects which may mar the
most perfect productions. This task is not. always easy df
accomplishment in an age which has a distinct sensational
tendency in fiction ; and no better proof of the difficulty to be
encountered could be found than is afforded by the writings
of the author of "Victor Lescar." All these works were pub-
lished anonymously ; yet, notwithstanding the ready approval
they obtained from the supporters of purist fiction, it was only
on the appearance of the last novel of the series that the critics
appear to have become aw are that an artist of no mean power
is at work amongst us*
* The following is the list of works by this author : Victor Lescar;
Artiste; Bright Morning. (New Editions : F. Warne and Co.) The
Sun Maid. Richard Bentley and Son, 1876.
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The Author of "Vector Lescar." 167
We want more of the ennobling element in novels, — a more
elevated spirit, and a more unerring distinction and demarca-
tion between virtue and vice. English journals lose no oppor-
tunity of enlarging upon the baneful influence of the "Dick
Turpin " school of fiction upon the juvenile population, and
such wholesome correction of the juvenile taste is both wise
and necessary ; but it should not be forgotten that a literature
equally pernicious, though dressed in a more attractive garb,
percolates through the various channels of the adult popula-
tion, and makes glad the heart of Belgravia. One of the most
potent antidotes to the influences of the latter school is the
spread of a healthier taste, and the inculcation of a deeper
devotion to the true canons of art and morality. It is upon
these grounds, and for these reasons, that we have chosen for
consideration the works of an author representative, we trust,
of other writers present and to come. These novels were
selected, primarily, as affording opportunity for making certain
general observations which we deemed to be necessary upon
the tendencies of current fiction.
Taking the stories in their chronological order, we discover
in " Artiste " an unconventionality which removes it from the
rank of ordinary fiction. Following the example furnished
by most of the works of George Eliot, it is devoted to the
development of two lives, with their reflex influence upon
each other; and the trials which both are called to endure
are not haphazard creations, but are an essential discipline
to the spirit of each. Henry Lennard of Lea, at the time
he is introduced to us, is a man renowned in many circles,
artistic and scientific. He is an admirably-drawn specimen
of the man full of latent energy, endowed with remarkable
talents, but yet possessed of that spirit of laisscz faire
which renders him of no use to his species, and threatens
to produce entire stagnation in his humanity. While on his
travels, and at Shepherd's Hotel, Cairo, a boy and a girl,
wards of an old friend, are committed to his care by their
dying guardian. Lennard's life, hitherto rich only in possi-
bilities, suddenly assumes a new aspect ; he finds in these
charges an occupation and a responsibility. Both the children
of English parents, the boy is an average specimen of the race,
but the girl is strangely exceptional to her kind. Hazel Gray
— for such is the name by which she is known — is sent to
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1 68 S/. James's Magazine.
school ; and though some of the scenes in which she takes a
part remind us of Charlotte Bronte's school episodes, there is
still sufficient originality in them to entitle them to the epithet
" interesting/' The author stumbles when she makes this
child, after years of absolute neglect and only a very brief
period of tuition, read Shelley with avidity, and discuss with
her guardian the nature of the Deity. Lennard reminds her
that "the Spirit of Vitality — Creation's life, Creation's ful-
ness,— these are God. Look here : you have marked it, —
' God is one central goodness, one pure essence,
One substance and one sense, all sight, all hands.'
The essence of a living deed — creation : that, my child, is
God." But she replies, " It was the Daemon who said that;
Cyprian did not believe him." The most accomplished young
ladies would find some difficulty in discussing these abstruse
questions, which appear to have offered no stumbling-block to
a child of twelve and a half years. Passing by this defect,
there are speedily other matters which efface it from the
memory. Mr. Lennard is a wealthy landlord, and the owner
of the village of Shenningstone, with all its ironworks. The
dilettantehas paid no attention to the people dependent upon him,
and they are found by Hazel in a condition of fearful misery.
One of the ironworkers, in describing it, thus indicates some
of the inequalities of our social system : " I'd build a house
for myself, and plenty of us would do the same, in odd times
out of working hours ; but will he (Squire Lennard's steward)
give us a foot of ground to build it on up there ? Not he !
It's the master's pheasants that gets the fine fresh air on the
rising ; it would not do to have them in this damp hole down
here." But schemes of improvement only find Lennard deep
in the analysis of an argument from Plato ; so the water goes
on undermining the cottages of Shenningstone. When Hazel
draws his attention to the terrible poverty which exists, he
replies absently, "Poverty — the great standing puzzle of states-
men and philosophers since the government of nations began.
I often reflect upon the problem of our poor. I fear there is
no help for it, Fawn ; it seems meant to be. It is a sad truth
that this world, where nature is so fair, should be disfigured
by the ugly, repulsive appearance — the poverty, in fact, of so
many of its inhabitants." But in her day-dreams Hazel
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The Author of "Victor Lescar" 169
wished to help Shenningstone, — to reform it, and to make it
an earthly paradise, where everybody was well and nobody
was poor and hungry.
At school Hazel meets with M. Francois Dalcourt, now
teacher of elocution and the declamatory art, but at an early
stage in his career famous as a master in dramatic art. He
discovers in his new pupil unquestionable dramatic genius,
and devotes himself to perfecting it He will make her great.
Meanwhile the cross purposes of life begin to manifest them-
selves. It had always been the wish of their guardian that
his two wards, Hazel Gray and Tom Netherby, should marry ;
and in pursuance of this wish Tom proposes. He is not,
however, in love ; while Hazel loves with all the strength of
her ardent nature her new guardian, Lennard. Believing,
however, a rumour that the latter is engaged to Miss Laura
Denby, the daughter of a wealthy neighbour, and having had
her acceptance of Tom's proposal urged upon her as a duty,
she consents to become Tom's wife. The shadows then
quickly gather, and they are traced by the author with much
genuine feeling and emotion. Unable to go through the
hollow mockery of marriage, and believing that she has lost
Lennard's love for ever, Hazel flies from Lea Range. She
contemplates suicide in the lake; but a life within her own, a
life burning and turbulent, cries out, " Kill me not ; spare
me ! I am Art, Heaven's freeborn gift. For my life, for my
destruction, you must answer to Heaven again. You are
created • Artiste ' ; you must live, endure life for Art." And
she is saved. The whole of this scene is powerfully drawn.
The delirium of suicide passes ; she hurries up to London,
and joins her dramatic master, Dalcourt, and his daughter
Fifine. To make her disappearance a source of still more
poignant anguish to Lennard — who loves Hazel as much as
she loves him — he discovers that Netherby has simply accepted
her as an obligatory act on his part, while what heart he has
to dispose of is given to another. Then commence years of
weary searching for lost Hazel, in which Lennard is assisted
by his artist friend and companion, George Wyatt All is
futile, however ; and during these efforts Hazel performs for
the first time as an artiste in a Paris salon, before Auber,
Rossini, and others. She appears in " Athalie," and makes a
sensation unparalleled almost in Paris. She is now known
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170 St. James* s Magazine.
as " La Listelle.,, Dalcourt mourns to Lord Atherley the
decline of the drama both in England and France : —
"'It is deplorable, monsieur, and the more so because the precious
talent was so largely committed to English hands. First, to that god of
the drama, David Garrique, that visible life of Shakspeare's invisible
idea ; and then, besides him, names such as you have mentioned ; and
later, " la Siddons," with her genius so pure, so elevated and sublime !
Alas ! monsieur, the soul to which they gave expression has no longer. I
fear, an echo in a London audience, or a representative on the British
stage.'
"'Thank the kind gods that there are still some stars sparkling in the
darkness of the Parisian sky ! ' said Lord Atherley, glancing smilingly at
Hazel. * Yes, monsieur ; with us in France the echo is still lingering, but
oh, gradually dying away. True, in our own generation we have had
transcendent names, and some voices of a glorious genius ,* but in France,
too, the great drama is dying away. Pantomimes, burlesques, the scene-
painter, the stage-carpenter, and the buffoon, find favour now with a
degenerate public, whose taste is too depraved, too vitiated, monsieur, with
a childish excitement, to appreciate a Shakspeare, a Racine, or a Corneille.
Bah ! the glory of the drama is past.' n
Vn all of which there is not a little truth ; for who can pro-
phesy when Shakspeare will come to his own again in England ?
We cannot linger further over the Continental triumphs of
La Listelle. Deprived of her presence, Lennard dwells upon
the conversations he had with her in past times ; and while
meditating how he can be of service, as she wished him to be, to
the neglected Shenningstone, a terrible disaster overtakes the
village. The river, swollen with excessive rains, overflows
and covers the whole plain of Shenningstone. The dormant
heroic spirit of Lennard at once exhibits itself; he remembers
that Hazel loved Shenningstone, and he hazards his life to
save its people. The flood rises to the attics of the houses,
where the inhabitants have taken shelter ; and by the aid of
boats and some of his men, Lennard saves them. The last
he rescues is a little child ; but when it is safely landed the
house sways under him, and in leaping from the window to
clear the sinking house, the master of Lea Range is struck
senseless by coming in contact with a piece of floating timber.
He is rescued, but for some time afterwards his life is despaired
of; when he recovers it is to become another man. The
sufferings of Shenningstone have shown to him his grievous
shortcomings as a landlord, and with all the energy of his
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Tlie Author of li Victor Lescar" 171
strong nature he sets to work to reform the condition of his
labourers. Life's discipline has been very severe with him,
but he acknowledges the necessity for the chastisement. With -
out the loss of Hazel and these Shenningstone experiences he
would in all probability have led the aimless, useless life pur-
sued by so many of the English landed gentry. This lesson
of the development, and not of the loss of a soul, is one that
is ever present through the whole course of the novel. We see
how it is worked out collaterally in both hero and heroine
while undergoing the bitter pangs of separation. In the end
Hazel is found by her guardian ; their lives are united ; and
while she remains " Artiste, mais pourtant femme" he finds
a. sphere worthy of his talents, and, as an enlightened
member of Parliament and friend of the working classes,
becomes of great service to his nation.
There are numberless suggestive passages and scenes in
^Artiste" which are worthy of quotation. It is a book
eminently calculated to stimulate thought — and none the less
so because in many instances we may not be able to agree
with its sentiments or its conclusions.
" Bright Morning," though not equal to its predecessor as a
novel, attests the versatility of the author. It is a story of
Scottish life, not without its gusts of passion, but of a quiet
order. The character-drawing, however, so important to the
success of any work of fiction, is again admirable. The
Lindsays of Hawthorne and the Hamiltons of the Craig
furnish the dramatis persona ; but one of the most strongly
defined personages is a certain Robert Deane. Hugh Miller
was the obvious prototype of this character, whom he strongly
resembles in temperament and endowments. Deane is intro-
duced to Marjory Lindsay, and the homeless Bohemian is
instantly conquered by her artlessness and beauty. He has
broken from the Scotch Church — into which it was intended he
should enter — for no orthodoxy can hold him ; and the sources
of life become precarious with him. An article or two for
the papers and a few evening pupils are all he can depend
upon ; and when he thinks of these he sees Marjory far out of
his reach. He reflects upon her home as darkness and
despair press upon his own life. u He saw the life of a living
faith — the harmony of souls at peace, the harmony of a home
of pure, simple lives; and he felt as a man feels when,
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172 St. J aniens Magazine.
struggling through the dark tempests of a winter's night, he
passes a cottage, and the light streams upon him through the
window, and he looks in, to see love and quiet happiness
such as his storm-tossed life has never known. He had not even
got a hearing from the world yet ; and everything had been so
sweet through all this time — those soft eyes raised to his in
sympathy, the low thrilling voice uttering its comments of
appreciation and praise." With a man of this calibre, waiting
and dependence have their limit. Crushing his love for the
moment, he rushes forth into the world's fight, imbued with
the sense of an earnest will, and determined to conquer or to
die. In the grim heart of London the latter nearly becomes
his fate ; but a rift at length appears in the cloud, and he
afterwards progresses steadily towards fortune. The heroic
Marjory — equally brave in her womanly patience and faith —
waits for the end, knowing the victory he will achieve. Such
are the lives of two individuals, and those the most attractive,,
of this story. But there is the obverse of the picture. The
young laird of the Craig, Godfrey Hamilton, pursues a
different course. First winning the love of Trixie O'Neil, the
wilful but bewitching heroine of the novel, he afterwards
pursues a reckless course of tiissipation in London, and casts
N her off because she has no fortune wherewith to redeem him
from the enormous load of gambling debts which he has
incurred. With a less stern and worldly woman than his
mother, Lady Marian, much might have been made of this
character. But the two are at cross purposes all their lives,,
and after a broken and disgraceful career the laird of the
Craig encounters death on a foreign battle-field. Of him
certainly the words are true — " Nothing became him in his life
like the leaving on't" Lady Marian, clever at conceiving
marriages but not at completing them, made failures of her
children. "There had been mistakes somewhere. Such
mistakes as poison, too often, young human histories, — such
mistakes as sometimes turn the heart's current, running pure
and limpid, to a blackened and crooked course, — just the
mistake of forcing conventional standards of worldly ambition,
and placing false principles of human welfare before the
warm, strong, heartfelt affection that is the only safeguard
of a human life." And these mistakes operate not only upon
lives which are near, but others brought within the scope of
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The Author of "Victor Lescar."
173
their influence. For example, Trixie O'Neil, who had been
true to Godfrey Hamilton, utterly shattered in her faith and
love by his conduct, consents to still further wrong by marry-
ing a rich merchant towards whom she can feel no affection ;
and thus the circle of evil is still further widened, and the
happiness of other lives ruthlessly destroyed. After many
years of experience in the storms and tempests of suffering,
Trixie at length reaches a haven of happiness in the love of
one who, unsuspected, had been the sleepless guardian of her
career.
Such novels as these are both helpful and healthful to
humanity. Devoid of mawkish sentimentality, they are
imbued with strong principles of morality and virtue, which
are never unduly obtruded upon the reader, and yet are ever
ready to suggest themselves to his reflection. It is this sound
and permeating morality which gives to these works their prin-
cipal charm and value ; and we cannot affirm that the age does
not need such teachers as those who present this morality
and this virtue in unmistakable but not offensive fashion. A
writer, of course, should never pretend to instruct us, unless
he has really something to say ; and this holds good with
works of fiction as with other branches of literature. We
cannot have one good writer too many, while we acknowledge
the justice, at the same time, of Carlyle's complaint of the
myriad of book-factors.
A work of a totally different order from those we have
glanced at is "Victor Lescar." Professedly the history of
(inter alia) the " Universal," we can penetrate the thin dis-
guise, and perceive that it is really the history of the " Inter-
national," whose ramifications have extended to every capital
in Europe. A writer who undertakes to depict contemporary
events essays no easy task; but this has been accomplished in
" Victor Lescar " with marked success. The story opens with
the first f£te of the agricultural year, and a procession through
Le Grand St. Marteau, Paris. At a lattice-window of a house in
the principal street a girl stood watching the procession. She
had " a very beautiful face, of a type dark, warm, and southern.
Very young, — the soft outline of the rounded cheek being
full and child-like, — but already striking and remarkable.
Shadowed by folds of glossy hair, worn twisted round the
forehead, and falling in straight plaits, like a Roman peasant.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
174 St. Jameses Magazine.
over the shoulders, the face seemed at once rich and dark, yet
luminous and glowing ; for the black shades of the hair were
relieved by a bunch of scarlet anemones nestling on one side,
and the olive tints of the cheek and brow threw up in brilliant
contrast the crimson of the lips and the flash of the dark
restless eyes." This was Faustine Dax, granddaughter of
Auber Dax, the founder of the " Universal," at whose house
men of all nations met to discuss international questions.
While the founder counselled peace and concord, and strove
for the brotherhood of man, his pupils outstripped him and
became Revolutionists. One of them saw no liberty in France
{this was in 1854) while a crowned head dazzled the people
and the foes of humanity were allowed to exist : —
" 'The foes of man — what are they, friend ? ' cried Auber. ' Ignorance,
vice, poverty, and pain. These have settled like a flight of evil birds on
the fair harvest-fields of human progress, crushing man down with misery
nd despair. And you go forth, you say, against them — you would-be
thinkers and revolutionists ; and lo ! one so-called wise among you, really
madder than the rest, erects a false foe in the way. You call it " royalty " —
a " crown ; " and all your eyes are dazed, and out you cry, ' Behold the
enemy ! ' and on you rush, expend your strength, destroy him haply, but
yourselves as well. Then you look round, and lo ! the black vultures brood
over society still. And you — you were deceived. They still stood en queue
sX the bakers' doors, friend thinker, though the head of King Louis rolled
low in the dust. Ha ! foolish children. Woo the fair goddess, you stupid
Friedrich ; go, learn wisdom, reflect. Society is a most intricate and
-entangled thing, I tell you, and it is little that you know about it. Know-
ledge is the best chance. Let the boy have knowledge, Lescar ; it is the
strength of a man in these times, and for a woman it is a fair wreath to
.wear.' n
-Such was the nursery of Victor Lescar, the son of a French
-officer but of a Scotch mother, a Protestant, and a descendant
of the heroic Puritans. The terrible events which succeeded
1870 in Paris brought the " Universal " into horror and
detestation, as the mainspring of the Paris Commune; but
this was not the " Universal " that was the dream and the
aspiration of Auber Dax, the watchmaker of Le Grand St.
Marteau, twenty years before. He had the thought " of a
possible millennium, when a universal sympathy of interests
might unite in one vast brotherhood the nations of men ;
when war, with all its attributes, would be extinguished ;
when men would be united, through the simple recognition of
the great fact that their foes are superhuman, and that their
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The Author of "Victor Lescar." 175
interests are one." In his own words, " All history points to
the realization of the unity of mankind." These were the
ideas that Victor Lescar, ardent French patriot as he was,
fervently embraced ; but when he entered at Cambridge
University these ideas had already been scattered to the
winds by many of the associates of Auber Dax. Yet for his
noble dream Dax still worked on. He perceived the inherent
weakness of the French nature, and endeavoured to turn it
into other grooves, but with what success was but too bitterly
experienced in the annals of the Commune. Yet to show how
he understood the real safeguards of a people, let us extract
ta portion of one of his orations long before the outbreak of
those events which deluged France with blood : —
" It is time we were redeemed, my brothers, — time that the labouring
man had something other in his life save work and toil, — time he had
thought and hours to think in, — time he were raised, and all his children
with him, from the state of ignorance, the brutal life, in which he eats,
works, sleeps, then works again, then— dies. Time he were raised to feel
his humanity, and know his own mind and soul. And these things we
could do. We could raise ourselves ; we could appeal with force and
strength to masters and governments, and form within ourselves a power
quite irresistible, if only we could understand the grand principle of the
Universal, — if only we could unite. Look at the union of our produce at
Kensington ; look at the vast array it makes of substance and wealth.
Think of the human strength, in hand and will and effort, that achieved
those things, and then conceive that power united. It would overspread
the earth. And, O children, not with anarchy and bloodshed, not by men
maddened with false theories and wild notions to subvert the world, but
with a vast, all-embracing army of human energies, calm and determined
in their strong appeal for the redemption of their children and of them-
selves. For their redemption from ignorance, from superstition, from
degradation in all mental and spiritual life, — for their redemption from a
state in which vice and the wineshop are the only recreations in their life
of toil, — for this could we appeal with power, if we were. of one mind, if we
could combine. Of these things, of such a time, of such conditions among
my brother-labourers in our beloved France, I have dreamt, my friends,
sweet dreams, in which peace and union, plenty and contentment, flowed
through the land. These things are studied in all nations— only France
Jags behind. These things fill men's minds everywhere. Shall France
pour out her blood in vain political struggles, in foolish internal broils ?
Can the French workman not separate himself from politics, from questions
of government, and turn, grave and earnest, to his own concerns?"
Here is indicated the real weakness of the Parisian, though
not of the best type of Frenchmen. Political agitation is the
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176 5.'. James's Magazine.
life-blood of thousands who cry for self-government, and when
they have obtained it know not what to do with it
But the story waits. Contemporaneous with the incidents
at Auber Dax's, the narrative gives us glimpses of a totally
different character, — glimpses of sweet Scotch home-life at
Sir John Graeme's, The Old Towers. Sir John is a wealthy
landowner, a widower with two charming daughters, Donna
and Gaie. The former, who is the senior by some years, is a
noble and intellectual, yet affectionate girl, who takes charge
of her beautiful and impulsive sister. Sir John Graeme has
also a ward, named Piers Ashton, the heir to great estates in
Warwickshire. Piers spends all his young years with Donna ;
and between the two a deep attachment springs up. She
appreciates him, and sympathises with his aspirations to be
of essential service to humanity. Even before he has attained
his majority he finds that the world is all wrong, and wishes
that he u were born to set it right." The division of riches
and poverty, happiness and misery, he discovers to be an
injustice altogether, and he sees no political life worth the
having that does not attempt to grapple with these evils. It
is, consequently, not without misgivings that Sir John
Graeme, who regards his views as chimerical, and is him-
self a Cabinet Minister, sends his charge to Cambridge to
complete his education. At the University Ashton is intro-
duced to Victor Lescar, who speedily infects him with that
M enthusiasm of humanity " which he had himself imbibed at
Le Grand St Marteau.
The nature of Lescar has a magnetic attraction for that of
Ashton, and in a very brief period the two are moving heart
and soul in the same channels of thought and feeling. Victor
held forth on the Utopian future, which he helieved immedi-
ately accessible, and Piers was fired by active sympathy. We
cannot follow them through all their discussions at Cambridge,
nor stay to notice the really eloquent oration upon Liberty
delivered by their fellow-student, Thellusson. In the midst
of these experiences Piers receives a letter from Sir John
Graeme, exhorting him 'to abandon his visionary politics,
— which had an attraction for himself in his younger days, —
and to defend the old and venerable constitution of England,
while advocating necessary reforms. Ashton had spoken of
the poetical Utopianism of Coleridge and Southey, the theo-
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The Author of "Victor Lescar" 177
ries of dreamers like Fourier and St. Simon, and the social
philosophies of Proudhon and Bastiat, — all of which would
naturally appear the acm6 of evil to an average British
Cabinet Minister. He recommends Ashton to stand for his
native shire in the Liberal interest.
But the higher life which had dawned upon Ashton had
now obtained complete possession over him. He wrote
to his guardian that he was leaving Cambridge and pro-
ceeding to Paris with Lescar, there to advance "the great
cause ;" and that he might possibly make a series of journeys
afterwards to the centres of the Society in various parts of
the world. In intimating this to Sir John, however, he admits
that he has already perceived the impracticability of Fou-
rierism, Saint-Simonianism, and other visionary schemes. In
Paris, however, Piers is introduced to Faustine, the queen of the
cause, who immediately exercises a strange fascination over
him by her wonderful beauty. Victor discovers that he no
longer moves in the same grooves with the Revolutionists,
who are bent on anarchy and bloodshed. In Faustine's court
he meets Raoul Regnan, Henri Rochecarre (Rochefort), and
others, who by means of their fiery publications are endea-
vouring to excite the passions of the multitude. Faustine,
who loves Lescar to madness, perceives his superiority over
the rest of the agitators, and implores him to take his place
at their head. But Victor refuses — sick with the bloody spirit
he sees manifested in those with whom he can no longer work
in unison. He hates conspiracy, riot, and civil revolt. He
will not avenge the blood of Felice Orsini by shedding that
of others. The passages devoted to the inner workings of the
Journal de la Cloche and Le Drapeau, and their writers, are
admirable. To Piers Ashton, the cause he had come to Paris
to serve becomes almost insensibly, but surely, Faustine. He
offers her his hand, and will live and die with her for that cause ;
but she refuses him, — her heart is with Lescar, who neither
perceives her love for him nor returns it. Ashton receives
letters from Thellusson, inquiring the plans and labours of
himself and friend. They are still pursuing the Ideal, but
perceiving no practicable means whereby to accomplish their
objects, while Thellusson is solving the problem how to raise
the people, by his individual philanthropic efforts in the worst
parts of London. Donna and Gaie Graeme are brought ta
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178 St. James's Magazine.
the metropolis by their aunt, Lady Curzon Kellam, and intro-
duced to society. They meet with Madame Prioleau, of the
Red Cross, a noble and heroic woman, who has nursed the
wounded of many a battle-field. At her house they barely
miss meeting Ashton (after long years of separation) and his
friend Lescar. Evil reports have reached Sir John Graeme,
to the effect that Piers has joined the society of the worst
revolutionists in Paris, and an estrangement has arisen in con-
sequence ; but they meet in London, and everything is satis-
factorily cleared up. Victor Lescar falls in love with little
Gaie, and for some time the happy English life the characters
are now leading pursues " the even tenor of its way." But
suddenly the war between France and Germany breaks out,
and all is changed. Cries of "A Berlin !" and "Am Rhein !"
are raised, which float across the Channel, and reach Victor
Lescar in the midst of his new-found happiness. His soul is
immediately fired by devotion to his country, and he leaves
for Paris, accompanied by Ashton. The war is brief and
bloody, and the Prussians enter Paris as Auber Dax,
dreaming still of peace and brotherhood, dies, and passes " to
where beyond these voices there is peace." Victor had joined
the army, had been present at Worth, Gravelotte, and other
fields disastrous to the French. France was crushed to the
ground, and the young enthusiast raved and stormed at the
capitulation of Paris. No longer able to bear the shame,
he cast his uniform aside, refusing his assent to any terms
of capitulation while a Frenchman capable of bearing arms
was to be found. Then came the Communists, whom Lescar
joined, but forsook in disgust upon the murder of Generals
Lecomte and Thomas. When the murder of the hostages
took place, Victor broke his coloners sword in despair — he
would fight for the Commune no more. Faustine becomes a
fittroleuse, and receives her death-wound in protecting Lescar
— a brave death for such a woman. Order is restored ; but
although Victor Lescar has given up his part in the Commune
long ago, he is arrested and condemned to be shot. In prison
many painful scenes occur between him and his friend Piers,
who moves heaven and earth to procure his release, but in vain.
Sir John Graeme also interferes, but to no purpose. In the pre-
sence of death Lescar writes his views upon the past and future
of France, and expresses his fervent hope for her salvation.
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The Author of "Victor Lescar" 179
The day of execution is fixed ; he bows to the inevitable
with a brave spirit, broken only by the agony of his parting
with Gaie. The fatal morning arrives ; he is marched out to
Satoiy, to be shot ; the soldiers are forming in line, when a
messenger arrives from the Council of Pardons with the list of
condatnnts. Across the name of one the line of reprieve has
been drawn — that name is Victor Lescar. The story here fitly
terminates, and the reader is left to imagine the future lives of
Donna and Piers — who have long loved and understood each
other — and Gaie and Victor.
It will be seen from this outline of the narrative of " Victor
Lescar," that it deals with phases of life as old as humanity
itself. The ancient question animates its hero — how to advance
the moral and social progress of the world, and bring mankind
into the perfect state. There is something noble in the aspira-
tion ; and, come to us in what form it may, it invariably enlists
our sympathy. But every philosopher, from Plato to Mill,
and every poet, from those of ancient Greece down to
Tennyson, has been compelled to chronicle and sing but
failures to achieve this end— magnificent failures in some
instances, but none the less failures* The same sad truth
dawned upon Victor Lescar, when in prison, and wrestling
with the dread expectancy of death. The author has well
expressed this in many eloquent passages deserving of careful
study.
Mazzini observed that civitas generis humani had been the
dream of all thinkers, from Tacitus to Dante, from Dante to
Bacon — but how to attain the end ? What is the welding
force which can achieve the brotherhood of humanity ; and
who is to set it in motion ? Many a philanthropic spirit has
embraced the idea, and almost conceived the steps of the
project ; but he has passed away, and the world has pursued
its course unregenerated. We are thus thrown back upon the
ultimate end of individual existence — viz., to do the duty which
lies nearest to us. This is getting in the thin end of the wedge
of the world's reformation ; the mistake of the great dreamers
of mankind is in thinking that unity can be accomplished by
bold and sweeping strokes in obedience to their grand con-
ceptions. Of use and help in enforcing the ideas just briefly
indicated, is the novel to which we have now devoted some
attention.
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180 Si. James's Magazine.
The latest story in the series by this author, entitled "The
Sun-Maid," differs as widely from * Victor Lescar" as the
""Vicar of Wakefield" from Lord Beaconsfield's " Lothair."
It is a transcription of life at Pau principally, and is chiefly
noticeable for its pictures of scenery and for the delineation
of the one character from which it takes its name. Sir Gilbert
Erie, of Erie's Lynn, is a young man who had been left chiefly
to mould his own existence, or rather who has chosen to mould
it in spite of the efforts of his mother, Lady Anna, a hard,
matter-of-fact woman, whose pride is that she is orthodox in
the faith. Years ago her sister, of a totally different temper,
had eloped with a French marquis, and they now lived at
Chateau de St. Hilaire, near Pau. It is on his first visit to
these relatives that we are introduced to Gilbert. Here he
meets with Madame Zoph6e Variazinka, a Russian lady, and
the heroine of the story.
We shall not follow the course of the narrative in its
entirety. Sir Gilbert Erie falls desperately in love with
Madame Zoph^e, whose husband has been exiled by the
Russian Government for being suspected of implication in a
plot upon the life of the Emperor. It is not known whether
he is alive or dead. When Erie ascertains the full details of
the history, he throws off the lassitude of his nature and
departs for Siberia in quest of M. Variazinka. The scenes of
danger through which he passes are graphically described-
Ultimately, in the midst of a blinding snowstorm, he reaches
a resting-stage in the steppes of the Caucasus, and in the
night rescues a wretched being whom he perceives peering in
at the window. The fugitive is too far exhausted, however,
for succour, and dies in the arms of Sir Gilbert Erie. He
proves to be the husband of Madame Zoph^e, and he had
escaped from the mines. Gilbert hastens back to Pau, and
the story closes in the manner which might safely be pre-
dicted. Madame Zoph6e, or the " Sun-Maid," is an admirably
drawn character, whose individuality is well preserved through-
out There are also other personages, French and English,
whose idiosyncrasies have been happily caught. We should
desire, nevertheless, to point out that a man like Erie, to
whom exertion was naturally repugnant, is scarcely the man
to become consumed by the thirst of travel upon casually
reading an article in the Times newspaper. The British
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The Author of "Victor Lescar" 181
tourist is well flagellated — the man who feels exactly as if
he had rented the Pyrenees with his apartments, for which
he pays so many francs per month. He exhibits the view
to the last comer as if it was a meritorious achievement of his
own, and* the winter sunshine as a performance that did him
especial credit. We .have spoken of the excellence of the
descriptions of. natural * scenery by this author; and many
passages could, be culled ; in; proof from her latest novel. Our
space, "however, is exhausted. , n
. , These, novels have been considered because they are of a
class t which, should • be. encouraged, in contradistinction to
much fiction which finds currency at the present day. Irre-
spective of any other claims upon us, their talent is remarkable.
But the first quality which will probably strike the reader is
their absolute purity : there is no line of which it might be
said it had better have remained unwritten; and this we regard
as no mean tribute. The end is achieved, moreover, not by
constantly forcing upon our attention the necessity of morality,
but by diffusing it as a secret yet powerful aroma over the
whole. A mere writer of moralities, one whose works are
illumined by no touches of genius, becomes aground of offence
to us ; but a writer who moralises without ostentation and
with marked ability enlists our interest. The only noticeable
defect in this author is her deficiency of humour — that salt of
fiction — which alone prevents her from attaining the highest
rank. But she has much descriptive and emotional power
and a keen appreciation of all that is noble and beautiful in
Human nature. The purposes for which she writes are also
of an exalted kind : here, it is the duty of self-sacrifice for the
welfare of others that is insisted upon ; while again, in other
works, it is demonstrated that it is not what a man has —
possesses — which should determine our estimate of him, but
what a man is.. Further, alike in scenes requiring the deepest
pathos and the most delicate appreciation of the sentiments,
we meet with a master-touch. There is a wonderful grasp in
many of the most trying situations; and another striking
feature of the novels is that, notwithstanding the multiplicity
of their characters, every individuality is preserved. No nature
is ever contradictory, or developes into the impossible being so
frequently met with in the works of other novelists. If we
behold now and then a crudity in the style, it is such a defect
vol. I. i£>
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182
S/. Jamefs Magazine.
as can be obviated by a devotion on the part of the author to
her art. Respecting her originality there can be no question ;
and she is doubtless destined in the future to attain an honour-
able position amongst those of her sex who have charmed us
by their conceptions of life and manners. Excellence of con-
struction in narrative, earnestness, skill in the delineation of
character, and a wide and catholic sympathy, chiefly distinguish
these novels. From that which has been already achieved,
we may confidently predict a career of no mean distinction
for the author of " Victor Lescar." Fiction needs regenerating,
and she is amongst the toilers for its regeneration.
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The Water Lily to the Maiden.
ET a little, oh, fair maid of summer,
My petals must wither and die,
No more to the breezes of morning
Shall open the gold of mine eye.
The kiss of the sun shall no longer
Awaken my heart to delight,
Nor the stars with their fire-shine and music,
Enrapture my rest through the night.
My life is but brief as the spring-time,
Though now 'tis as clear as the hour
When first in the light of the dawning
The day-star unfolded my flower.
Oh, maiden, thy bosom shines fairer
Than snow or the gold of my heart,
Thou hast eyes like the summer of heaven,
There is music wherever thou art.
Yet frail as my life is thy earth-day,
Thy beauties, too, wither and die,
Then look from my petals to heaven
And live for the life of the sky.
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"Groweth down like a Toadstool."
SL aDommic Cornebp-
By LUCIUS BROUGHTON,
AUTHOR OF "A DAY WITH A DABY," " HOW HE WON HER," ETC.
CHAPTER VII.
MY RETURN.
HAVE seen the sunset from the Righi, and the
moon ris* from the brow of the Faulhorn. I have
also quarrelled with the hotel-keepers of both,
places, and at last, weary of foreign lands, I return
to England and my family. But there is a great alteration in
me and my views of life. However, I have determined to
make my toadstool grow faster than ever ; and when I see
the smoke-dried town beneath my feet, I resolve to set to
work at once and do the rest of the labour offhand. But I
have miscalculated the force of circumstances. Kate is a sly,
deceitful puss, and when I enter my paternal mansion a few
hours earlier than was expected, I find this.
Kate is standing in front of the looking-glass, with a gen-
tleman's arm round her waist. I know who the offender is,
though I have not set eyes on him for two years. It is no
other than Ralph Weston ; and what the dickens is he doing
with his arm round my sister ? I am in a rage. If they are
engaged, and without asking my consent, I will punish both
eternally. If they are not, I will most assuredly punch his
head for his impertinence.
I have a light footstep, and so I steal up behind them, and
with a gliding motion bring my lips right against Kate's
cheek before she is aware of my presence. She jumps back
with a start.
" Oh, Reginald ! "
"Yes, it is Reginald, returned at last. And pray what is
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"Growth down like a Toadstool." 185
the meaning of this, Mr. Weston ? " And I look at him with
the fierceness of a roused tiger.
Ralph laughs.
" If your sister objects, I shall be happy to take my arm
away," he replies, with a cool assurance that quite takes away
my breath.
I feel inclined to do or say something very desperate, but
am checked by a certain look in Kate's pretty eyes.
" Oh, then," I say, " while I have been wandering abroad,
you two young people have been making fools of yourselves
and one another. And pray what has become of the myste-
rious story Mary St. John was going to tell about you ?
And what has become of Mary herself, for the matter of
that?"
" Why," returns he, laughing, " all our old companions have
shared the fate of the wise men of the east, and got married. "
" Really," I replied, rather nettled by his coolness, " I am
not acquainted with any gentlemen of the east that met with
that fate. Neither did I see them abroad in my travels, any-
where. Kate, what do you mean ? "
"Reggy, dear old Reggy," she says, throwing her arms
round my neck, " is it possible you never got my last letter ?
Mr. Weston— Ralph— is "
" Oh, that is it," say I. " Well, I suppose I ought to have
no objection, if Dom is satisfied ; so, Mr. Weston, here is my
hand."
He. takes it, and we mutually congratulate one another on
the event.
Kate's eyes speak volumes to me. There has been plenty
of love-making in the family during my absence ; well, I hope
she is happy.
The little folk, meanwhile, have in some mysterious manner
heard of my arrival, and into the room come the whole lot,
helter-skelter. How they have grown, and how they pulL
their brother about ! Then last, but not least, enter Mamma
Elise. But no ! — can it be, can it indeed be, the Dragon, so
altered, so fair, so mild, so placid, so gentle-looking, so armour-
less ? What can have happened to her ? Or is the change
only the result of the station and wealth into which she has
grown, like a cucumber in a glass ?
There is no paint on her cheeks, no powder round the
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1 86 St. James's Magazine.
mouth or on the chin ; and I can give her a hearty kiss without
fear of people thinking that I have been saluting the cook
instead of my mother. I appreciate the change, and greet
her warmly.
But it is perfectly evident that she has something on her
mind. Her hand holds mine in a feeling way, and her eyes
seem, for the first time within my recollection, to look atone
with an expression the very reverse of dislike. Surely I have
not improved so much in personal appearance that Mamma
Elise thinks me worth looking at ?
" Come/' I say, " mother, how are you ? and how is the dear
father ? I suppose you and he have not been to. the Crystal
Palace lately, eh ?"
" Oh, Reginald," she says, " your father will be so glad to
have you back ; but you, poor fellow, will only hear bad news,
I am afraid."
"Why, what on earth is the matter? Have the Funds
failed ? or has the Governor taken it into his head to lose all
his money on the Stock Exchange ? Come, what is it ? "
u Kate, tell him," says she.
" Why, goodness me, mother, you don't think Reginald will
care ? He has not seen the girl for nearly two years, and he
• neVfer did care much about her. The only news is — Miss
Mountstephen was married yesterday."
I nearly jump out of my cutaneous covering. If I had
been an elephant, or a pachyderm of any description, I am
quite sure my start would have done me a very serious
injury.
" Married ! " I exclaim ; " why she wrote to me most
affectionately about a week ago ; and this is what she meant
by saying she wished I was back. I suppose she has gone
to Paris, and was afraid to meet me there with her husband.
Well, I hope she will be happy. And what of Mary St.
John?"
" Married, too, to Mr. Weston's brother," says Kate, laugh-
ing. " So you are a free man, Reginald, and you can go and
look for a wife as soon as ever you feel inclined to settle
down."
"Well, if ever "
But I cannot say any more, — I am too much astonished ;
for Kate has behaved like a sly girl, and kept all this news
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"Growth down like a Toadstool" 187
from me, while not even in one of her letters has Mamma
Elise hinted at such a possibility as the marriage of both
these girls. And now I ask myself whether I really care ;
and I find I care very little. But still my pride is wounded,
and I am obliged to pretend to be very much heart-broken, so
I say,
" Upon my word, these girls are curious in the present day ;
you never know what they are up to the moment you lose
sight of them. As for Laura, I am disgusted with her, — you
should have seen her letters. And Mary ! — why I had an
idea she was breaking her heart for me, as well as her cousin."
" Well," said Weston, " it is rather hard to lose two sweet-
hearts in one day, I admit; but you ought to be rather
thankful, for it gives you more incident for the very charming
novel I hear you are engaged in writing."
" Get out of the way ! " — this to Carrots, who is holding
my hand in a semi-affectionate manner quite against her
wont " Get out of my way. Leave me alone. I will anni-
hilate the pair, whether they be in London or on the broad
Atlantic in the equinoxial gales : I will after them, and be
their destruction, just for the purpose, as Mr. Weston puts it,
of making more incidents for my novel. Or suppose, just for
the same end, I begin by annihilating you ? "
Carrots bolts, to prevent the annihilation, and Weston
appeals to Kate for protection. My intentions for evil not
being very sincere, her protection avails him, and I sit down
in a chair, apparently crushed by the weight of my misfor-
tunes.
"Ah," says Kate, "don't take on, poor Reginald. There
are some much nicer girls about now, and I don't believe they
were either of them good enough for you."
But Kate's words are in vain. I take on dreadfully, and am
in bad spirits when I meet my dear father, and till the end of
the day.
CHAPTER VIII.
I COME TO A DEAD STOP.
I AM in a most unfortunate position, and I don't know what
to do. I have written a good deal of nonsense, without the
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1 88 5/. James's Magazine.
least doubt ; but in thatjl have only imitated many — I bad
almost said most — of the writers of the lighter literature of the
present day. I have filled a good many pages \ and what I
have written has been read, if not with great interest, at any
rate for the purpose of passing a few leisure hours. Now I
hold that to pass an hour well is to do a thing worth doing ;
and it was my intention to continue my story until it arrived
at an appropriate termination. But I have been anticipated,,
and what can I do ?
There is no human being who will stand the disappointments
of a literary man with greater complacency than myself.
Naturally, when I began to write this story, I thought myself
very clever ; naturally, as it progressed, I lost my self-conceit,
and thought it gradually more and more stupid, though for
the sake of my readers I kept my opinions to myself. I felt
I was telling a story, however badly ; and a story, if even an
irrational one, has always something to recommend it to the
notice of the public. But now what am I to do ? My occu-
pation, like Othello's, is gone. "Farewell! Othello's occupation
is gone."
Adieu, my pen. My heart is broken, and I can write no
more.
A sceptic may urge, " When you began to write, you knew
very well what was going to take place with your imaginary
characters ; but you chose to be rash, and now pretend grief
at your failure to bring your tale to a satisfactory conclusion."
But such a judgment is unfair in two ways. First, it throws
a doubt upon my veracity, and makes me think I have been
writing fiction ; secondly, it brands me with dishonest inten-
tions towards my readers, and I can say confidently with the
baker in "The Hunting of the Snark," that
" The slightest approach to a false pretence
Was never among my crimes."
No, dear reader, I meant conscientiously to go on to the
end. But the unseemly haste with which my sister became
engaged to Ralph Weston, and both my young ladies imitated
her, and got married in my absence, has frustrated my inten-
tions altogether, and I am no longer able to do you justice^
My incidents are gone, my plot fractured like a tenpenny nail
in a gooseberry bush, and my method all vanished to the
winds.
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"Growcth down like a Toadstool." 189
What then am I to do ? Only this — cut my toadstool short,
gather its spreading grace, and pull up its roots from the
ground. I have told you the truth, and made a clean breast
of it Will you forgive me ? I hope so.
Life is too short for you to bear enmity against a humble
individual like myself. I am eccentric, I know, but then that
is a fault which I shall get over in time. Still I feel that,
however I may deserve your forgiveness, I ought not to leave
you in this abrupt manner, like a bottle of champagne going
off with a whizz. I am therefore going to tell you what happened
when Kate was married, and wind up, like her wedding-day
did, with a calm sky.
The sun is shining as he does not often shine in the middle
of November; and the birds — yes, the happy birds — are actually
singing as they used to sing to me in the summer-time, when
I was a boy, and lived in the bright and beautiful country*
Happy, they say, is the bride upon whom the sun shines ; and
therefore when I wake in the mornjng at about eight o'clock,
I say to myself, " God bless sister Kate* I forgive her for
getting engaged in my absence," and I say aloud, " God bless
sister Kate, and make her very happy/ '
I have learnt all about Mr. Weston and the engagement.
He had been pledged to a sister of Mary St. John's, and after
a few months of love-making she took it into her head to-
make up to another young man. I am ashamed to say
Weston was not very grievously disappointed. He did not
even suffer from wounded vanity for any length of time, for
he too had taken a fancy in the direction of my pretty and
amiable sister. I have since seen the young lady of his first
choice, and I have it in my mind that he did not lose much
by the change. Kate, however, had another offer of marriage
before Weston dared to propose. The young man whom I
mentioned before as the " Co." in my father's business had
for a long time been very much attached to the girl, and at last,,
with dear old Dom's sanction, he asked her to be his, but she
had no inclination that way, and the disappointed suitor went
into another business in consequence. Papa was very sorry
for him, and very angry with Miss Kate for some time, but he
forgave her at last, and allowed her to marry Mr. Weston,,
though not very much in favour of him as a husband for his
eldest daughter.
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190 Si. James's Magazine.
So Kate was engaged to Mr. Weston, and when the
wedding drew near the governor as usual came out hand-
some. All the friends of the family, too, showed their
appreciation of my fair sister's merits, and the stairs
literally groaned beneath the weight of the presents they
carried up them to the room specially set apart for the
exhibition of bridal gifts.
But the morning came, and Kate was ready, and looked
well in her bridal dress. She wore pure white, as is the
custom from time immemorial, and for flowers sweet-
scented orange-blossoms, though to my mind they had the
odour of carrots and turnips more than of oranges. Still
Kate, and Carrots, and Amy said they were real orange-
blossoms, and so I suppose they knew more about these
things than their affectionate brother. Then came the brides-
maids, and they wore white dashed with pink, just as if
somebody had upset the strawberries and cream upon them, —
and very likely they had. There were three young ladies,
besides Amy, who took upon themselves to officiate. Nelly was
left out, because she would have been the odd man— or rather
woman ; and you cannot very well have an odd bridesmaid,
though it is the invariable custom in civilized countries to
have an odd bride. Kate had selected her bridesmaids
with great care. They were pretty and young, and nicely-
dressed, and knew how to flirt with the groomsmen, and talk
about other weddings to advantage. None of them had been
bridesmaids more than once before, and I believe that the
second time of officiating as a bridesmaid is supposed to be
always lucky.
The carriages came to the door, and the party went to
church. What a stupid thing a wedding is after all, but this
was not nearly so silly an affair as a great many I have been
to, for Kate did not cry much, and the bridegroom behaved
himself very well, and the minister did his duty, and no more,
and then it was over.
The best part — the breakfast — was then to come. I had
the privilege of taking care of the prettiest bridesmaid, and
as I was considered an eligible young man, she was instructed
by mamma to pay me every attention. You ask how I know
it ? Well I happened to overhear a little sentence the night
before which went something like this :
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"Growth down like a Toadstool" 191
" My dear Carry, you are to go in to breakfast with Mr.
Thompson. He is a very nice young man."
Of course that was sufficient, for there is an old adage about
a nod and a blind horse, and young ladies in the matter of
husbands are by no means blind horses. So I was in an
enviable position, for there is nothing nicer in this world than
having plenty of attention paid to one by a girl you do not
care for if she happens to be a charming girl, as Miss Carry
most decidedly was. The bridegroom made a speech, and a
very bad one. I sincerely recommend all men about to marry
to study elocution. Such a miserable attempt at speech-
making as my brother-in-law perpetrated I have never heard
since, and I never wish to hear again. Why cannot a man
learn to hold his tongue if he has nothing sensible to say ?
Gentle reader, that is a maxim I am about to take to myself.
Kate was married and done for ; my father and mother were
happy, or pretended to be, which answered the same pur-
pose ; and I, poor little I, became once more a most insignifi-
cant member of society. There was no more romping in the
schoolroom, no more teasing Carrots or the mother, or playing
at making love. For Kate, life's most serious business had
just commenced. For me, it was sure to do so for ever.
When one's father is a millionaire, a man must have some
employment. After much play should come much work, and
I hope in my future I shall be able to show that the lazy days
of youth were not thrown away.
- But my Toadstool — my. novel, my work, that was to run to
three ponderous volumes, — what of that ?
There is in my study — a room I occupy when and how I
please — a small table with two drawers. In one I keep Kate's
likeness, in the other some loose manuscripts. If I carefully
sorted out the latter, I might be able, with a little labour,
to finish therefrom a readable tale ; but I have intruded on
your kindness long enough, and my Toadstool has grown
downwards until the sunshine no longer serves to help its
increase.
THE END.
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Only a Retrospect.
SI 'E.ilc,
By CONSTANCE HARTE,
> S I stand by the fire, leaning my head on my hand,
and the gaslight shining through the few grey
locks still left to me, a memory of long ago comes
from out the shadows of the night. Not faded ?
Ah, no, alas ! that past can never fade. The mystery of the
future draws very near, the veil which a merciful God has
spread before human eyes will soon be raised, but the pros-
pect of the revelation leaves little hope for my soul. It
often seems as if through all the worlds I shall wander on
alone, unblessed by her love, with an incomplete existence for
ever and ever. As I think of it, I almost wish that future a
myth, and the promise of faith withdrawn — at least from me.
Oh, to live through all eternity alone for ever! Can the
Almighty have cursed one of His creatures with a fate so
dread ?
Here, then, I stand and live as I have lived all my life —
silent and solitary, unloved, uncared-for; no wife, no home
ties, no children. A blank loneliness my dreary lot
The weary days succeed each other, and I survive but for the
duties of life, and because the nobleness of the passion I felt
for her forbids that I should cease to labour. Perhaps my
story is not a new one, perhaps it has little interest. The
blood of a heart is a thing to be hidden away ; but at times it
rises to the light, and the stain will show.
It is many years ago, and I was only four-and-twenty
when I first met Rachel ; but I was no boy either in heart or
knowledge. My love experiences had been bitter, but not
fatal. They should have taught me to expect little from
women ; but who is wise in youth ? Rachel was fair, though
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. Only a Retrospect. 193
scarcely what men call beautiful. Soft brown hair shadowed
a high, round brow, and eyes like those of the gazelle looked
up to the sun and spoke to nature of love. The contour of her
face was delicate, and the expression slightly pensive, but not
sad. When she smiled she showed a row of beautiful teeth,
and her whole face lighted up with the glow of youthful
animation. Others had loved her, but she had smiled on none.
I knew not nor inquired if her heart was hers. I gave her
mine, and the world was forgotten. Who with the pure fervid
aspirations and the beating heart of youth has not done the
same ?
My position was not very bright, but in a very short time
I ascertained her feelings were^influenced neither by money
nor the things that go to make up the happiness of women
of the world. She ' was above them. Her mind dwelt
on that which passeth this world's goods, — on love and
happiness, and the peace^which ^springs from these. My
heart was strong with hope. I lived, I worked for her and
wooed her in silence for two years, until the sun of a brighter
time arose on my horizon, 'and feeling success within my
reach, I rejoiced. (I was of a sanguine temperament then.)
Is there such a thing as happiness in this world ? All my
prospects told me that my future was safe. Wealth sufficient
to make me and the girl I loved happy, to give her a home of
comfort and peace, was within my grasp, and I spoke to those
who loved her of my heart's desire. ;,Such objections as her
parents had to me and my connectionsjjwere easily overruled.
These were no dreadful shadows in my path. True, I had had
my little flirtations, my youth's struggles and trials and
romances, and I had been no stronger than other men ;
but my heart had been purifiedijby such temptations. I had
learnt to love virtue and truth, goodness and faith in God,
before beauty and grace ; and, likejthe Psalmist, I sighed to
find the one virtuous woman.
When, after some time, I. knew\ Rachel as she really was, I
thought I had not searched in/, vain. Days fled past, and
the season of summer came. !^Shei|jwas staying with some
friends near the Thames, and I often went down to their
house and met her. Then we would go in a party on the
beautiful stream, or walk a mile or so in the sweet light ot
evening, and once she went with me to the railway station ;
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194 &• Janus' s Magazine.
and all the time I whispered in her ear such sighs as those
the stars may breathe in the passing of the morning breeze
across their face. She listened— in later times she said she
never gave me any encouragement. What, then, is an atten-
tive ear and a ready smile lent to a man of strong feelings
but encouragement sweet and dear, and to be thought over
and hoped from? Ah, Rachel, I do not condemn you for
listening, I blame you not for having been so kind, nor ask
that you should suffer one pang for the misery you caused
me ; but I was not the fond fool you would have had me
believe myself. My attentions were not wholly uncongenial.
Several times during that summer season I was tempted to
show her my heart, but I refrained, waiting from day to day
in the hope of being able to win more and more upon her
favour. She had a sister, a dear girl whose path in life had
not been all roses ; and this sister understood my heart and
sympathized with my longing. Many a hint used she to give
me, but I heeded not one. All I did was to pursue the path
I had chosen strongly and steadfastly, feeling certain that the
great love I bore Rachel could not fail to meet with the
reward it deserved.
To summer, with its golden crown and bouquet of flowers,
succeeded autumn and the fair harvest time. All nature was
fruitful ; all men seemed rejoicing that the labour of the year
had been blessed.
Rachel and her parents were at Hastings, and thither I
sometimes went, when the cares of business released me. I
saw her seldom. Once, I remember it well, for the moment
fixed itself on my heart, never to be forgotten. She was
sitting at the window of her hotel, in the early morning. It
was a fine day, and the sea lay calm and peaceful before my
eyes. I had been for a walk, and was strolling leisurely back
to breakfast, but. I paused before the house which held my
hopes, and as I glanced up saw her there. Never will there
be another such moment for me. The early morning threw
around her a freshness and a light grace not always hers ;
and as she saw me, she bent forward her graceful head and
bowed and smiled with the greeting of an angel. These tokens
went to my heart, and I returned the look. My recognition
was not unwelcome. Whatever has been in her heart since,
I had one corner in it then, and that morning and every day
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. Only a Retrospect. 1 95
while I remained at the seaside I sent her a bouquet of the
fairest flowers the neighbourhood produced, and they reposed
on her breast, or in her hair. Ah, happy flowers ! for when
their sweetness had served her for joy, she cast them forth to
die; and had God been gracious to me, she had done the same
to this poor heart when her favour failed, and her fancy
changed. Perhaps I mistook friendly interest for love. Of*
course I did. Men always do, and women are never at fault.
The days fled by, and I went back from the sounding sea
with my hopes higher than before.
Then for some time we never met. A shadow rose between
us, all unseen by me. I was timid, and dared not intrude
ray hopes too much, for the respect I bore her made me
anxious to wait her time, and subdue my fancy to her service.
Many things occupied me, too, which the claims of family
enforced ; and while these tied my hands, another quietly
stole into my place, and I knew it not. He wooed and won.
0 time and opportunity ! ye are the only things with which
no mortal can fight.
So it came to be the winter, and the rain was driving fast
through the air one wild night, when I called at the house
of a friend where Rachel was staying. I found her sitting
at a table with three fair children, whose games she was
sharing. They welcomed me with delight ; — I am always a
favourite with the little ones, and I have often felt thankful
that their innocent love is left to me. They at least never
betray true affection. How fair she looked that evening as
she rose, and while the children pursued their play we
stood together by the mantel-piece, with our heads turned
towards one another and the fire. Rachel apparently knew
what I was going to say, though I hardly found words myselC
My feelings were so deep, they stole my voice and made me
a miserable coward while I gazed into the soft brown eyes,
flashing and sparkling in the firelight.
" Rachel," I said, my voice trembling so much that perhaps
she hardly knew I used her christian name for the first time,
"you have seen my love for long. In patient hope I have
watched you day by day until thi^time, and now my courage
fails me as I dare to ask my happiness at your hands. You
have felt my love. There is no need to speak of its sincerity.
God who lives in heaven cannot love you better th^^Wp^Tp
VOL. I. 'tlZ1|
196 S/. James's Magazine.
nor, under His providence, will a life be better guarded than
yours, if you trust it to my heart"
Some say the tone makes the music, but no tone, no voice,
could have said what my eyes tried to breathe into her soul as
I uttered these words. Alas ! there was no answering light.
She smiled. (Do women know how cruel their smiles can be ?)
"It is of no use," she said; "we should not suit one
another, and— — "
"Not suit ! " I exclaimed ; " there is no barrier to love. I
know there were objections on the part of others, but they
have been removed. I can give you home, comfort, and
sufficient for happiness, if not for luxury. I offer love as
none but a true heart can. My life, my hopes, my future,
here and hereafter, are only dear for you. Oh ! take tiicm."
Another smile — colder, but a trifle sad. She could not but
feel the power of the appeal I was making.
"And," I continued, "you shall have the moulding of my
fate, the fashioning of my destiny. My occupation is dear to
me, but at your word it is gone, and I am yours in any walk
of life you desire. Can you feel no sympathy with the labour
by which I live ? If so, say but the word, and I will model
my work to your pleasure, or leave it altogether, as you com-
mand. Have I loved so long in vain?"
Her brow grew sad, but her lips parted without one sigh of
pity.
"You think so, but you will forget I have not forgotten
many things you have said. We should not agree. It is
useless."
Another man might have found refuge in pride. I loved
too deeply to wound her by word or look. Her happiness,
and not toy own, was in my thoughts. Firmly I believed it
in my power to beautify her life, to give her happiness and
pleasure more and more, day by day ; but then I knew not
that she loved another. I answered slowly, —
" This world is not all, Rachel. You I have loved as my
partner through eternity. You can teach me how to do your
bidding, and as a willing pupil I will learn the lesson. Money
is, I know, no thought with you. You would not refuse the
man you loved for a wealthier suitor."
She bowed assent
"Well, then, try and love me. Perhaps I have spoken too
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Only a Retrospect. 197
soort I will wait and hope. God wrote those two words on
either side of the word Love in the heart of man, and by
them I am contented to live till I have convinced ybu of mjr
sincerity, of my unalterable affection, my devotion through all
time."
" It is hot that," she said.
" Then," I demanded, in an excited tone, " tell me in mercy
do you love another ? At least let me know that your refusal
is not all caprice. I have hoped. You let me/1
Her brow lowered.
" Do you mean I have done wrong ? I have let you sup-
pose I would "
" Nay, nay," I interrupted hastily. " If you stabbed me to
the heart I would not reproach you. Oh, give me some hope,
though ever so slight Ask what proof you please — ask a
year, two years, but do not send me forth into the world
with a buried anchor in my heart and a crushed olive-leaf in
my hand It is hard to bid adieu to every hope of happiness,
to face despair at my age."
" It is no use hoping,11 she said 5 " I should not be happy
with you."
" Ah, then yoti fear my love> but I tell you that my love is
pure and true, and not of this world alone, but of more worlds
than we can see or think of. Upon high it will seek you and
follow you through eternity. Do not ddom me to go forth
without end or aim, without object in life. Give me 6ne hope
if— you do not love another."
But she turned awsty, and smiled — a cold, cruel smile. I see
it now. I see it often. It has risen before me at the banquet
and the wedding feast. When fame has bound the laurel on
my brow, and when gentle hetnds have soothed my poor
#orn-ottt frame, tthen kind wbrds have been Whispered so
sweetly in mine ear that I have beert almost tempted to
take other loves to my breast, — oh, that smile, that smile !
A man, a lover, may brave frowns, sneers, contempts, and
the emotions of pride, but the crtiel smile of a woman is the
bitterest thing that blossoms from thfc barren dust of earth.
It blights the Kfe-blood, it means hopelessness, despair ; to
the weak, death ; to the strong, a faighty suffering through
all time,— aye, through eteritity. And Rachel smiled that
smile, and then— her friend entered the room.
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198 Si. Janui *s Magazine.
Our interview was over. God only knows how I bore up.
I could have wept tears of blood, but the habit of manhood
sustained me. I spoke to the lady, and uttered meaningless
phrases for a few minutes ere I went forth to face my fate,
and fall or conquer.
So my love was told and my heart crushed. That night
passed, and to my surprise I still lived, and thought, and felt,
and moved. Changed, it is true, but not altogether hopeless,
for I felt time might yet aid me in my cause. When is true
love fated to be of no avail ? — " only," I thought, " when the
heart you seek is not free." And had she not said hers was
free? A few days passed while I comforted myself thus,
and then the truth broke in upon me. She did love another.
He was poor, he was beneath her in position, he was, I felt, I
knew, unfitted to make her happy. Her delicate sensibility,
her acute sympathy, needed a love of the purest and noblest
quality to render her life fair ; but she loved him, partly for
his face, partly because of his strong hold on the things she
fancied. He could talk well and gaily, and colored life with
sentiments which appealed to her vanity and pride. He
flattered her, and she mistook flattery for affection. He gave
her ardent looks and burning words in place of my soft
utterances and tones, strained only to please her ear. And,
then, he was good-looking, while labour and suffering had
taken the bloom from my cheeks and the locks from my
head. My youth would have returned with her love. That
sun would have brought forth a new growth of life, a second
spring time. He had lived a gayer and a free life, and nature
had given him a stronger frame. Often does she place the
bright mind, and the spirit made strong to endure, in a frail
and feeble body. I flatter myself, but only for the purpose of
contrast. Rachel was too young to go to the depths of our
characters and compare them. All she knew was that he
pleased her the most, and she loved him the more that her
family had discarded his attentions. Love penetrates all
mysteries, and I found out Rachel's secret, to use it thus : —
I sought him out and made his acquaintance. He did not
know my secret. I became his friend for her sake. Then
my real labour began. The loss of her affection, as he believed,
had paralysed his faculties. I revived them. I showed him
the path of life fair with roses, and I bent aside the thorns
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Only a Retrospect. 199
or let them bury themselves in my flesh. I never groaned,
I suffered in silence, and she knew not my sufferings. He
roused his mind, urged on by the vigour of my help. He failed,
but I was behind him. I made him walk in the smooth path ;
and while I lacked the comforts of life, I pushed him forward,
on the road to fame and prosperity. God blessed my labour
for others, as He refused to bless it for myself; and my friend
grew rich and respectable, and he asked again for Rachel, and
won her. She was his, she was happy ; and I saw her so,
and believed myself contented.
Brief, alas ! was her season of rejoicing. The husband she
had chosen was not the man to be to her all she wished. I,
watching with a lover's untiring energy, every change in the joy
of her I loved so much, saw the trace of pain on her features, and
knew all the shadow meant. Gently I spoke to her husband,
but he was tired of her. His ends in life were riches,
grandeur, station, not to make the happiness of one woman his
sole and only consideration ; and so she had to bear her
burden. And the love I bore her could do no more than
shed a tear of sympathy.
She had no children, else my age were not now so desolate,
for I must have won their love. Rachel and I met some-
times in those dark days when she knew her husband had
ceased to love her ; and the eyes, sad, but still beautiful to me,
were often clouded with the dews of sorrow ; but we never
referred to the past, though I have hoped that my patience
may yet be rewarded in another and happier time, when
we live in God's light and day. And that faith has at times
been my consolation. I have wandered on through a weary
career, working my hardest, doing my very best, for the sake
of the strong love which I gave her years ago. It was not for
me who had loved her to sink down at the feet of sorrow and
cry to death for rest No ; I bore my burden, though it
bowed my back and bent my knees, and whitened ray locks
at forty. Shall I confess it ? I have shed many tears, but
they have not been wholly selfish ones. ' Have they fallen to
earth unseen ? or will the good God yet in His mercy find
a place and a time to reward my faith ? I have tried to do
His bidding to the best of my ability. In our efforts for
good, can we all expect success ? Perhaps not ; but we can, and
while I live, and if I have the power after death, I will still
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200 St. Jameis Magazine.
trust His mercy and goodness, and kiss the chastening hand.
Yet will I believe that true love is noble, and worthy to be
lived for. Yet will I hope for the time when she may value
the heart she once broke, and give me the affection I have
yearned for so long. Perhaps she loves me, perhaps she
never will, perhaps my standing here and speaking thus is
but one more of the vanities of grief. Sorrow is often as vain
as joy, but if I am so condemned here by all, she may yet
understand and pardon. The future may give my life hope.
Rachel still lives, but her life is meaningless to her, to all. I have
never felt the kiss of wife, nor heard the voices of children
around me. The desire for these things perished with her
love long, long ago ; but that love cannot be without some
merit, and I believe firmly in the goodness that
u Made the love, to reward the love."
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Two Sonnets.
By DAVID R. WILLIAMSON.
WINTER.
ARK Winter rages o'er the earth and sky,
And fills the air with sighings of despair.
No leafy dells, no buds of promise fair
As Spring confessed, no peaceful mountains high
In cloudless azure, meet his rolling eye ;
No birds that strains of happy rapture bear
Within their hearts, — no sun-effulgent seas,
Where walks fair Peace, make gloomy Winter smile ;
Gone are the murmurs of the happy bees, —
The songs are fled that Summer's hours beguile ;
No blooming boughs gleam in the glowing sun ;
The winds lament the damage they have done ;
The sun in terror hides his hoary head, —
The earth laments her woodland glories dead.
SPRING.
Now God commands, and gentle Spring obeys ;
On Ocean's mane her tender hand she lays,
And bids him rave and foam and prance no more ;
The Winter winds among the woods she slays, —
At her command, the billows cease to roar.
Sweet flows the ripple on the sandy shore ;
The mountain waves are hushed ; the glowing god
Of light sends beaming tributes of his love
To draw the daisy from the mouldy clod,
And rear the bowers where Beauty loves to rove ;
From off the snow-encircled mountain-head
The clouds are rolled ; the starless time is dead ;
Fair Nature thrills with joy : the darksome night
Of Winter fades, and Spring leaps into light !
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Only a Music-Master.
By FANNY AIKIN-KORTRIGHT,
AUTHOR OF "ANNE SHERWOOD," " HE THAT OVERCOMETH," ETC.
CHAPTER XIII.
horatia's love.
JES, Horatia was conquered and a captive, but
like a true captive she beat constantly against
her prison bars. She was angry and impatient
that she should have been subdued. Her passion
equalled, probably surpassed, Valerio's ; it was as a stream
of molten metal carrying destruction and devastation be-
fore it ; but love, in its truest, highest, and noblest develop-
ment, was still a stranger to her bosom. Submission,
self-sacrifice, she did not, could not understand. Had
Valerio been a man of strong mental power, nay, of strong
character, he might have laid his hand on her with a master's
stroke, and bent her, saying — " Thy will shall be lost in my
will, thy being shall empty itself into mine. I am thy king."
But Valerio had no force in himself; he was the slave of his
captive, fearful of offending her by a word or look, sensitive,
jealous. He was naturally of a timid, modest nature. His
had been a pure life and a virgin soul ; love to him was the
eternal union of spirits; he was tender, constant, grateful.
It seemed to him that Horatia had bestowed on him the
highest good that woman could give, or man receive. He
already regarded her as his wife, and he never dreamt of the
possibility of any change in their relations.
True, she was haughty, imperious, and often passionately
angry ; she would even reproach him for taking the very love
she had flung into his path, but still, she was his, now past
recall. Their meetings were secret ; in public he was careful
to guard his very looks from betraying their intimacy, and
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Only a Music-Master* 203
this very mystery was another charm to the romantic
youth.
Of one thing Tie was sure, that when his words failed to
move her, he had but to sing, or touch his instrument, to bring
her to his side.
The white-haired old woman was now confined to her
chamber, and Valerio spent his evenings in the church, or in
the little low parlour with the casement window ; he knew
the spell that would arouse Horatia. For a long time he
confined his practice to the solemn church, and again and
again — as it seemed against her will — Horatia was drawn as by
a spell to the spot, and stood near him disguised in dark
garments as on that well-remembered night months ago.
The solemn scene, tranquillising Valerio's heart and mind,
was too solemn for the ebullitions of human passion ; he
loved to feel that Horatia was beside him, subdued by his
magic melody into even momentary tenderness. His love
had much that was holy in it. Had its object been different,
it might have been one of those rare, almost unique affec-
tions which grow up in the bosom of a Paul ; but, alas !
Horatia was not a Virginia.
The solemn gloom of this meeting-place, instead of elevating
her soul, pressed on her spirits ; then she would draw her
lover forth into the outer air, and make him close the heavy
portals for the night. They passed the churchyard. " See,"
said Valerio, with that sudden revulsion of feeling which comes
over a southerner, — and he pointed to a quiet spot under a
yew tree, — " that is where I should like to be buried when I die.
If I am buried here, I wonder whether you will one day kneel
beside my grave and remember this night."
" Oh, don't — don't say such gloomy things, Valerio ! — we are
both so young."
" But the youngest flowers fall beneath the scythe some-
times," said Valerio.
" How can you talk so— you that are always merry like the
soaring lark ? "
11 Beloved, it is just those temperaments that have in them
an unfathomed depth of melancholy; the sunbeams may
dance on waters that run very still and cold below. I have
had some sorrows, Horatia."
" And disappointments too ? " asl^ed Horatia,
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204 St. James's Magazine*
"Yes, many."
" One from Miss Grantley ? "
" Yes, one from Miss Grantley."
" Oh, then, she did play you false/you did make Jove to her,
then ? I thought so," cried Horatia, like a passionate child,
snatching her hand from the arm of Valerio.
"No, I did not make love to her; love is too $acred a
thing for a jest, or a game. She disappointed me in — in
quite another way."
" I will know how ; you have no right to conceal anything
from me, Valerio."
" Nor will I conceal aught from thee, my own. She dis-
appointed me in not paying her bill."
" Money again — you sordid wretph — njoney for ever ! " said
Horatia, withdrawing from his side.
" No, I am not sordid," said Valerio with a tone of distress ;
" but she at home, whom you have never seen, suffers. Till I
saw your face, she was the dearest object I had ii* life. How
can I see her want, and not wish for money that is mine of
right ? So I do regret that Miss Grantley has not paid me
her bill. It is cruel and unfeeling in the rich to keep back
what they justly owe to the poor."
" Then Miss Grantley has not paid her bill, Valerjo ? but she
will some day."
"When she does, knowest thou what I will do with the
money ? "
" No."
" I will run to the river-side yonder, and throw it to the
bottom. Perchance I may follow it down."
" Valerio, who is the old woman ? "
" My mother."
" But I hear she is old, — your mother would not be old."
" Nor is she. She is Italian, and in that country the flower
of womanhood blooms and expands sooner ; so quickly does
it fade. Besides, she has known sorrow."
" Who was your father ? "
" A gentleman."
" I saw that from the first."
"How?"
" Because of your ears and hands and feet"
Valerio laughed.
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Only a Music-Master. 205
" And your mother, of what family was she ? "
"Of Adam's."
" What do you mean ? "
" That she can boast no other ancestor. Her father was a
vine-dresser."
" A vine-dresser I — good heavens ! Then she was not
u She was not what you call a lady, but she was and is my
mother, Miss Ormsby, — and I love her."
By that one proud speech, by the momentary dignity of his
accent, Valerio won much on Horatia. He looked so noble
when he spoke proudly, she thought.
They passed the little cottage, lit by no light save the
moon, for the mother had retired to rest.
" Go in," said Horatia ; " leave the window open, and play
to me, and sing the last air of Edgardo in ' Lucia/ "
"And you?"
" I will stand here and listen."
" But it is late ; you will be alarmed."
" Nonsense ! Do I ever know fear ? "
" You may be seen."
" Ridiculous ! I defy any one to recognise me in this
disguise."
Valerio obeyed. He sang till Horatia crept in at the open
door, up to his side, and then fell on her knees, the moonlight
streaming in on the beautiful girl's upturned face radiant with
emotion. The beautiful voice ceased, and sang no more that
night.
At a later hour than she had ever before been seen from
under her father's roof, Horatia furtively crept into the old
Manor House through a private entrance, with a private key.
As Valerio conducted her home, they had again to avoid
the highway, and cross the churchyard. Not a human eye
saw them, unless it was that of a beggar woman who sat on a
gravestone rocking a child to sleep in her arms. It was the
young Hagar, whom Horatia had driven forth to perish, or
live in sin. Horatia recognised her with a shudder. Had she
recognised Horatia ?
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206 St. Jamcis Magazine.
CHAPTER XIV.
CLOSER ACQUAINTANCE.
"LuiGl, talk to me of something besides music! I am
growing weary of sweet sounds. Have you nothing else to
say — is there only one string to your harp ? "
" Only one language in my soul, Madonna. To some, God
sends the gift of eloquent tongues ; to the poet, rythmic
songs ; to the painter, alluring colours that breathe ; to the
most gifted of all beings, the sculptor, to make spiritual
images out of the divine marbles that- speak his thoughts. To
me He has given the language of music Oh, soul of my life,
thou knowest all my music says ! "
" Alas ! yes. I know it all, Valerio — every diapason. I
would hear something else — something new."
"Thou wouldst not leave me, Horatia!" said Luigi, in a
tone of alarm.
"What if I did?"
" I should die, Horatia — die ; — not of the childish disap-
pointment that I had lost a fair thing, — no, I should die of
sorrow that thou couldst be false. The noblest pillars of my
life, faith, and trust, would be shaken ; the temple they sup-
ported must fall into ruins."
" Fear not ; I will never leave you — never ! "
" Never," repeated Valerio. " Remember thou art mine for
ever, whether I be living or whether I be dead. Thou art
bound to me for ever; thou canst never be another man's
wife ! "
A deep red colour suffused Horatia's fair face and neck.
" Did you think I had not counted all the cost, Valerio ? From
the first hour I saw you I renounced all idea of ever marrying,
though "
" Of ever marrying any but me, Horatia, my beloved ! "
" You ! You don't think I ever mean to marry ' you
Valerio!"
" Not marry me, Horatia ! In heaven's name, what do you,
what can you mean ? "
" Not to plunge deeper into folly than I have plunged."
" Folly ! Does not your honour demand that you should
bear my name ? "
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* My honour ! " repeated Horatia, with a concentration of
bitter scorn. "It is so long since my honour and I parted/
that I forget its aspect. Oh, I was so happy once — so strong
and proud in my unsullied soul. Valerio, Valerio, what have
you made of me ? Why did you come to fling a curse on the
sunshine of my happy life ? Do you remember what I said
to you one night when nearly mad with the humiliation you
had brought upon me : ' Take for thy pains the hatred of my
whole life !' Valerio, there are moments when I hate you as
the cause of my misery ! "
Valerio covered his face with his hands, and turned away.
"There are moments/' continued Horatia, following and
laying her hand on his shoulder, — " there are moments when
the sound of your voice sends a flood of remorseful tender-
ness through my whole being, and I think it is I that am
your curse — that without me your life would have been as
innocent as beautiful, Luigi. I am not all evil, but hardness
and wickedness are growing upon me. What shall I do ? "
" Pray to the good God," said the young man simply.
"Pray I I never prayed in my life. I said unmeaning
words that fell earthward as soon as uttered. I never
breathed an aspiration that could pierce the clouds, even
when I was what men call good. How dare I go and knock
at Heaven's door with hands unclean ? "
"Horatia, prayer is for the sinner, praises for glorified
saints. We have both sinned; let us kneel at God's altar,
ask Him like children to forgive us, and in His presence let
us swear truth to each other for ever."
"Luigi, I cannot! "
"Wherefore?"
" I have not outlived my pride. I will not give men the
chance of pointing the finger of scorn at me."
"Would they point it more at you as my wife than as *
" Don't hesitate, Valerio ; speak your word, if you will.
The world knows no harm of me ; it believes in me still ; and
my only satisfaction lies in fooling all my acquaintances. My
fame is in no danger, Valerio. I am a sepulchre well
whitened : within, corruption that man will never see unless
you give them the key to look in. You will not do this ; you
will not weary of me, and grow cruel ? "
" Is it like me, Madonna ? "
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208 St. James's Magazine.
" You might grow jealous some day, and then-—-"
"Then I would tear you from a thousand rivals. My
jealous frenzy might betray out love, but otherwise "
" Oh, I see, while I do your will, and bury myself here,
living only for you, Vaierio, as though you were the Sultan,
I, a lady of your harem, so long you will act towards me as
a gentleman and a man of honour. The moment I try my
wings you will cease to be aught but an infuriated savage,
and I must abide the consequences. Vaierio, the alternative
is pleasant.0
The winter's fire was burning on the hearth where Luigi
and Horatia met. She had moved from the rooms peculiarly
her own, which had been on the upper part of the house, that
she might from the windows command a wide and beautiful
view of the surrounding country. She had laughed at all
remonstrances, and had located herself on the ground floor in
a suite of rooms said to be haunted. She said she chose
them partly that she might pursue the studies in which she
was engaged uninterruptedly, well knowing that no servant
would approach them unless when obliged to attend her sum-
mons. She said she chose them partly to demonstrate the
groundlessness of superstitious terrors. The rooms were
situated in a wing of the house, and at the rear the casement
windows opened low towards the ground.
Mr. Ormsby suggested the possibility of robbery, murder,
and all their attendant horrors. He suggested that her maid
should at least be at hand to give some protection to the
* wilful girl, but she would not hear of such a proposition. She
would consent to an alarm-bell being placed in her study, to
allay her father's anxieties. That was the only precaution
she would take ere she set herself the task of laying the
ghost.
Under her window was a terrace ; oft this terrace it was
asserted that the figure of a man in a dark cloak had been
seen to walk at intervals as far back as any one could re-
member, and tradition said that for ages he had there walked
— only, according to all accounts, his costume had been modi*
fied by the century in which he, we cannot say "lived," but
"walked." Horatia was just the woman to laugh to scorn
such puerilities. She asked who had seen the ghost. Well,
no one had, but the whole establishment knew somebody who
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Only a Music-Master. 209
knew somebody else who had [seen it, and so on and so
on.
* If it exists, I will see it/1 said Ho rati a ; and as the autumn
wind began to blow chill, she had each evening after nine, shut
herself into the charmed chambers, with a blazing fire and a
lamp, and a pile of books that must be pleasant company.
The furnishing of the old Manor House was old and worn, yet
it had a certain picturesqueness about it. That of Horatia's
rooms, in particular, was in the best taste : of carved oak dark
with age, and crimson hangings rich and heavy ; in daylight
faded, but by the light of lamp and firelight, looking as well
as she, who liked everything beautiful, could desire.
There was no carpeting on the oaken floor, but it was
polished, and near the wide fireplace were spread a couple of
tiger-skins. Horatia liked them much ; she would have liked
the living tigers could she have tamed them enough to make
them her playmates. On one side of the fireplace was an old
cabinet, usually locked In this Horatia kept her papers,
letters, and a little portrait that no eye was to see but her
own. Sometimes she would gaze upon it with tenderness
unspeakable; sometimes with impatient scorn, as though
ready to dash it to pieces.
Perhaps no fond woman 'was ever so thoroughly subdued
by her victor that she has not occasionally writhed in her
chains. It must be galling to a naturally haughty spirit,
loving and prizing its liberty, to find its free flight suddenly
checked, its wing clipped, and every thought, every pulse,
brought captive. In such a case love is not all love, — per-
chance there is a little hate mingled in its subtle essence ;
unless, indeed, the hero of the romance be a true hero ; but
where is such an one to be found ? Ah, were he to be found,
we might set all the minster bells ringing, that worshippers
might flock to kneel before him.
Strange to say, no sooner had Horatia shut herself in her
apartments than she forgot all her purposes, forgot even the
existence of the spirit she was to exorcise. It was averred
that the ghost had walked on the terrace since Miss Ormsby
had inhabited the haunted rooms, — that he had been seen to
vanish near one of the windows ; they even said that voices
superhuman had been heard in converse in those apartments.
Horatia derided these superstitions ; she had not seen a
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shadow of the ghost, nor heard an echoed whisper of the
alleged wonderful tongues. In fact she was a hardened scep-
tic. The old housekeeper shook her head, and thought the
apparition boded no good ; was sure that Miss Ormsby's scorn-
ful incredulity would bring a judgment on her, if not on the
entire household.
" It bodes no good/' repeated the old woman ; " she will
be the last of her race — no child will ever be born to the house
of Ormsby."
Meanwhile, the ghost still walked. Only one or two were
bold enough to look — they from a distance. The cavalier in
the cloak, entering at the window, lay on the tiger-skin at
Horatia's feet, half the time talking like a child, calling her
Madonna, and worshipping her.
And on one of these evenings it was that the lady had said,
" Luigi ! talk to me of something beside music 1 "
CHAPTER XV.
PARTING.
May had come round with its sunshine and its blossoms.
Horatia surprised her father by talking of a London season,
but he gladly assented to her proposal. They had lived in
privacy so long that their funds were less encumbered than
usual, and no serious obstacle presented itself to the town
sojourn, unless it might be the secret remonstrances of
Valerio.
" Thou wilt forget me, Madonna, and I — ah, why are not
love and flowers and sunshine and divine music enough for
thee as for me ? "
* My mind starves for something higher than all that," said
Horatia impatiently. " If you loved me, you would wish my
happiness. Besides, I shall only be gone a little time."
"A little time! Ah, Horatia, to me it will not be little.
Already you are growing strange to me. Our meetings are
becoming fewer and fewer, and when we do meet your looks
grow colder. But you will write to me, Horatia," he added,
impetuously, and looking into her eyes for his answer, — "you
will write me long letters, and often ? "
"Yes, I will write."
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Only a Music- Master. 211
u And remember you are mine, mine in life and death ; we
are bound by our love, even by the seal of sin. Were you
unfaithful to me, I should still follow you ; were you in the
midst of the living, I a wandering ghost among the dead, I
should escape from my prison-house to glide at your side.
Without me, thou canst not be, — remember, remember thou
art mine ! "
" Oh yes," said Horatia, wearily, and as she spoke she began
arranging some papers in her cabinet. "You are a true
Italian ; your English father has transmitted nothing to you —
not even a name, it seems."
Valerio's colour rose to crimson ; for an instant his eye
flashed indignantly. Horatia saw she had gone too far.
" You may as well say farewell," she said, following him
towards the window from which he was escaping, as the clock
tolled one. She held her hand to him. He turned with a
stern face, but no sooner did his glance meet hers than he
folded his arms around her tenderly.
u You are very good, Luigi," said Horatia, sincerely, — " how
soon you forgive. I wish I were like you, but I am hard —
hard as bronze."
"Thou art ever the best and dearest, my own. Go, enjoy
the town pleasures. I am a selfish savage to want to cage
thee here ; but come back to me, darling, come back to me
soon, and love me as I love thee. Who will love thee as
well?"
He was gone, and Horatia leant out of the window and
followed his receding figure with fixed eyes till he was lost to
.sight
" Despite his childishness, 'tis a noble spirit," she murmured.
4< I am a vile wretch beside him. Yet he has been a curse to
me — he has bound me in an unholy spell ; how shall I break
the yoke that presses on me ? Oh for freedom ! — for freedom
bought at any price — at the price of my life ; if needs be, at
the price of my soul ! "
She spoke these words aloud. Horatia thought she heard
a derisive laugh; then she thought again that fancy had
played her false, and she repeated,
" 111 dream no more — by manly mind
Not even in sleep is will resigned."
(To be continual.)
VOL. I. 15
A Chat about the Post Office.
By M. G. M.
Part I.
|NE evening in the November of 1854, a little before
six o'clock, when at St. Martin's-le-Grand, the
mails were being made up, a stranger stood
watching in silence the orderly crowd of men
and boys as they streamed into the great hall of the General
Post Office with their sacks of newspapers and bags of letters,
in such vast number as to suggest despair of final arrangement
and distribution. He took no part in the busy scene ; but it
was plain from the steady and earnest gaze, which allowed
nothing to escape observation, that he who stood watching
was, in his own fashion, also at work.
This stranger was Pliny Miles, the American writer on
postal subjects. From his own words we may justly infer
that he was well pleased with what he saw. "Every
American," he writes, " who spends any considerable time in
England, comes home with a glowing account of the British
postal system, and extols its promptness, convenience, safety,
and punctuality, as something bordering on perfection."
Pliny Miles thus records his experience on that November
evening: "On one occasion (Nov. 1854) I was in the London
Post Office, and saw the evening mails made up under the
direction of Mr. Bourne, the superintending president. There
were that evening 216457 letters, and nearly all of them
went through every process of facing, stamping, sorting,
defacing stamps, and distributing and making up in the bags,
during a period of two hours and a half. Just exactly on the
stroke of the hour, at eight, the last bag was sealed and ready
to go There were about 600 clerks . . . the news-
A Chat about the Post Office. 213
paper mail being nearly ten times the amount in weight ot
the letter mail."
The observant traveller goes on to describe how no precious
moments were wasted on unnecessary work ; how the letters
were rapidly tied up in bundles of convenient size, without
counting, without wrappers, the superscription of the outer
letter showing the destination of each packet, a con-
venient number of packets being bound into larger parcels ;
and, finally, how all was accomplished with the expertness
and celerity of long practice.
Thus it is, then, that we fortunate letter-writers of the
nineteenth century are enabled to converse at length from day
to day with the absent, and to receive prompt replies from
afar off. But how was it with our ancestors ?
" Letters," writes one of the patient people of the seven-
teenth century, " being now carried by carriers, or foot-posts,
sixteen or eighteen miles a day, it is full two months before
any answer can be received from Scotland, Ireland, or
London." And in other respects it fared hard with the
correspondents of former days. In 1520, we find a mother
paying nearly half a guinea for sending a letter to her son,
as we gather from the following entry in the " Household
Book " of the Le Stranges, Hunstanton :
Cost of riding to London with a letter for my son, Nycolas, gs. yi.
This costly grievance lasted on to much later times. " One
morning," as Sir Walter Scott was wont to tell his friends,
"I opened a huge lump of despatch without looking at
the address, never doubting that it had travelled under
some omnipotent frank, like the First Lord of the
Admiralty, when, lo and behold ! the contents proved to be
a manuscript-play, by a young lady of New York, who kindly
requested me to read and correct it, equip it with a prologue
and epilogue ; procure for it a good reception from the
manager of Drury Lane, and make Murray or Constable bleed
handsomely for the copyright ! On inspecting the cover, I
found that I had been charged upwards of £5 for the postage !
This was bad enough ; but seeing no help, I groaned and
submitted. A fortnight after, another packet of the same
formidable bulk arrived, and I was absent enough again to
break the seal without examination. Conceive m>
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when out jumped again the same identical tragedy of the
" Cherokee Indian," with an epistle from the authoress, stating
that as the winds had been so boisterous, she feared the first
packet had foundered, and had thought it best to send rne a
duplicate!"
As to the safety and secrecy of letters, our ancestors were
greatly to be commiserated, even down to the beginning of
the present century. In 1804 Lord Melville writes to William
Pitt: "I shall continue to address you through Alexander
Hope's conveyance, as I remember our friend Bathurst very
strongly hinted to me last year, to beware of the Post Office,
when you and I had occasion to correspond on critical points,
or in critical times." In 1783 William Pitt writes to Lady
Chatham : "lam afraid it will not be easy for me, by the
post, to be anything else than a fashionable correspondent, if
I believe the fashion which prevails, of opening almost every
letter that is sent, making it almost impossible to write any-
thing worth reading." And Mr. Beresford, writing in the
same year (to Lord Temple), remarks: "The shameful liber-
ties taken with my letters, both sent and received (for even
the Speaker's letter to me hath been opened), make me
cautious in politics." In earlier times this custom of opening
letters prevailed still more generally, and, it seems, without
any attempt at concealing the practice. In 1688, when not
only letters but parcels of all kinds were sent by the post, we
hear of the "shameful conduct of the Postmaster-General."
" He doth stop, under spetious pretences, most parcells that
are taken in, which is great damage to tradesmen by losing
their customers or spoiling their goods ; and many times,
hazards the life of the patient when phisick is sent by a doctor
or apothecary." Earlier still (1642) we read of the alarming
manner in which a mail was stopped on its way to London :
" The Chester mail was met at the foot of Highgate Hill by
five persons on great horses, with pistols, and habited like
troopers, who demanded, ' Who hath the letters ? ' and saying
they must have them ; and," adds the chronicler, " they kept
their word."
It is by gradual ascents that we have toiled up the Hill
of Difficulty, vanquishing on our way all enemies, such as
failures, discouragement, ignorance, opposition, fear, and
attaining the heights "bordering on perfection," till our
A CJiat about the Post Office. 215
British postal system has come to be the admiration of all
the world.
For the earliest dawnings of the postal system we must
trayel back far into the past, and we must look beyond our
own island. In every encyclopaedia we may read how the
word post is supposed to have originated from the Latin
positum, placed or fixed; and how posts or stations were
placed at intervals along the roads of the Roman Empire, at
least as early as in the reign of Augustus : at these stations
couriers held themselves in readiness to receive despatches.
We must go back still further, and we shall discover very
curious arrangements for the conveyance of written and of
spoken messages. That ancient people the Chinese, before-
hand in everything, are said to have instituted stations for the
reception of those bringing news. At these stations beds or
couches were prepared, covered with silk and surrounded by
rich curtains, " fit even for a king," should the herald of news
be a royal personage. The historian Diodorus Siculus describes
stations in ancient Persia before the time of Cyrus, in which
were placed messengers who gave notices of public occur-
rences from one post to another, calling out in a " very loud
and shrill voice," by which means news was transmitted rapidly
to and from the court of the king. Then, again, the ancients
were not without their contrivances for the secret conveyance
of intelligence. Herodotus speaks of the messages written
on the shaven heads of slaves, whose journeys were delayed
until the hair had grown sufficiently to hide the mysterious
words which were thus securely veiled until the friend to whom
they were addressed unveiled them with his sword-razor.
Josephus tells us of men disguised as animals, and bearing
about them, hidden under the leopard's skin, or the lion's
mane, some dread secret written by a friend or a master.
Then, again, he speaks of letters enclosed in sarcophagi with
the embalmed dead ; and of messages, fearful or perchance
friendly in import, being engraven on bullets, which, anxiously
waited for, were slung into besieged cities. And we read of
the more ingenious contrivance of mystic writing, such as
that employed by Julius Caesar, who arranged a cypher most
effectual for secrecy.
The ancient custom of stations, or posts, bore but a slight
resemblance to the postal arrangements of our own times,
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216 St. James's Magazine.
seeing that they were available only for State purposes, and
were not intended to serve for private correspondence ; yet,
inasmuch as they were suggestive to high and low, we may
regard them as the forerunners of the extensive postal insti-
tutions from which now we all benefit.
In modern Europe, for many centuries, the advantages of
the post were monopolised by kings and officers of the State.
Charlemagne, Louis XI. of France, and Charles V. of Germany
availed themselves of the post, after the fashions of their
times. And in the Issues of the Excliequcr we come upon
entries in the household books of our English kings which
teach us that they also were fully acquainted with the delights
of many a costly correspondence carried on by means of swift
steeds and well-paid messengers, who travelled from post to
post.
The first regular letter-posts, systematically arranged for
other than government purposes, appear to have been those
established in the Hanse Towns. The Hanse Towns were
certain cities of Northern Germany, leagued together some-
what after the manner of trade unions, for the purpose of
mutual safety, in days when merchants were exposed to many
dangers by sea and land — dangers of a kind scarcely known
to modern traffic. Among other arrangements for their
general protection, was that of securing a safe and regular
means of correspondence between all members of the League ;
and for this purpose a line of letter-stations was established
throughout the Hanse Towns; namely, Hamburg, Lubeck,
Bremen, Brunswick, and many others, at one time amounting
to eighty-five in number, and comprising every city of import-
ance between Holland and Livonia (in Prussia). Very soon
this postal policy was imitated by surrounding nations ; and
a line of letter-posts was started, connecting Austria with
Lombardy, which was shortly followed by one extending from
Vienna to Brussels.
England waited long for her regular postal system, which
is of comparatively recent date, although as early as the
thirteenth century the necessity of it plainly appeared from
the various inventions resorted to by rich and poor. For
example, persons of wealth and importance would keep one
household official called a nuncius, or messenger, whose sole
duty was the conveyance of letters ; whilst their poorer neigh-
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A Chat about the Post Office. 217
hours would entrust written communications to travelling-
pedlars, sea captains, and others, who made stated and
periodical journeys ; merchants would occasionally speculate
by undertaking publicly to send to their respective destinations,
all letters brought to them, provided the expenses of trans-
mission were paid beforehand; and many of the nobility
instituted stations or posts for their own families, or for dis-
tricts in which they were especially interested.
The first public posts of which we hear in England were
those established in the reign of Edward IV. These, however,
were of an uncertain and fugitive character, depending on the
importance or significance of events, or even on the passing
mood of the reigning king. It was not until the days of the
Stuarts that the English post began to assume somewhat of
its present independence and stability. As letter-writers
increased in number, the Post Office began to take a more
definite form ; the charges of postage and the speed at which
post-horses were to travel were well considered and deter-
mined upon ; rules for the security and secrecy of letters were
issued; and a Postmaster-General appointed — the first who
formally bore that title being Sir Brian Tuke, in the reign of
Henry VIII. Historians consider, however, that the duties of
that office scarcely merited such a title as Postmaster-General
until the times of Henry Bishop, who is said to be the first to
whom full authority was given in that responsible position.
We read that Sir Brian Tuke got into trouble with
Henry VIII. Thomas Cromwell, Secretary of State, wrote
to him complaining of "great default" in conveyance of
letters. " It is the King's pleasure," he adds, " that posts be
better appointed." Sir Brian, greatly alarmed, as we may
-suppose, at learning that he had crossed the will of such a
monarch, hastened to send his excuses : the sums of money
appointed for payment of men and horses were too small ;
many people, for their own credit, dated their letters a day or
two earlier than they were written ; the roads were bad, and
•some of the messengers had proved untrustworthy. These
excuses, it seems, were graciously accepted, as we find it was
.not till eleven years after this that the next Postmaster was
appointed, namely, Sir William Paget, in conjunction with
one John Mason.
The general post, as we have said, dates from the time of
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2i8 St. Jameis Magazine.
the Stuarts. On the accession of James I., owing chiefly to
the host of Scotch correspondents who flocked to London and
spread themselves throughout England, great postal reforms
were rendered necessary. In Scotland, already the convey-
ance cf letters had been better arranged than in the south.
At Aberdeen, for example, the "council posts" had been
established since 1540; and there were trusty Aberdonian
messengers, "dressed in blue, and bearing the town arms/*
who galloped to and fro Edinburgh on strong ponies, depositing
and receiving letters of supreme importance. James I., highly
discontented with the postal arrangements of the Londoners,
sent forth a proclamation ordering " thorow posts and carriers,
riding post-horses." These carriers were to have " the pre-
eminence of letting horses for 2\d. a mile," while private
carriers were to arrange their own expenses as best they could.
Each post-town was to keep in readiness at least two post-
horses of strength and spirit, prepared to prance off at all
times within a quarter of an hour after the arrival of a govern-
ment despatch, and these horses were to travel at the rate of
seven miles in the summer and five miles in the winter.
Lord Stanhope was then Postmaster-General, and great was
his wrath on learning that the King had appointed an addi-
tional official — one Matthew Quester, who, assisted by his son,
was to manage the letters from abroad, and to assume the
title "Postmaster-General of England for Foreign Parts/*
Lord Stanhope, denying the right of Quester to interfere in
postal concerns, continued to attend to foreign letters, but
secretly, through an adherent of his, John Billingsley, who*
acting under his orders, bore the blame, even to being cast
into prison. Sir John Coke, Secretary of State, is "amazed"
at the "vile presumption of those who dare to act against the
royal commands ; " in haughty anger he writes of it to his
friend Lord Conway, who, in reply, deplores " the audacity of
men in these times," marvelling that " Billingsley, a broker by
trade, should dare to attempt to question the King's service,,
and to derive that power of foreign letters with merchants,
which in all States is a branch of royal authority ; neither/"
he adds, " can any place in Christendom be named where
merchants are allowed to send their letters by other posts
than by those which are authorized by the State."
Lord Coventry and Secretary Coke were evidently writing
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A Chat about the Post Office. C19
much they did not wish to be brought to light * Your lord-
ship," writes Conway, " best knoweth what account we shall
be able to give, in our places, of that which passeth by
letters in or out of the land, if every man may convey letters,
under the cover of merchants, to whom and to what place he
pleaseth." Secretary Coke, not to be outdone, solved the
difficulty in his own fashion. " The posts are now waylaid,"
writes a terrified Londoner to his unsuspecting and perhaps
imprudently confidential correspondent in the country, " and
all the letters $re taken to Secretary Coke's house ! "
Such waylaying continued long after the days of Secretary
Coke. One Andrew Cockburn, of the Jacobite era, was
steadily going on his way, laden with letters, when at dusk
he was " suddenly assaulted by four Jacobites in masks, one of
them mounted on a blue-grey horse, wearing a stone-grey
coat with brown silk buttons ; the other riding on a white
horse, having a white English grey coat. They threatened to
kill the man if he did not instantly deliver up the packet, the
black box, and the bye-bag; and he had no choice but to
yield."
The letter-carriers of those troublous times were sorely to
be pitied. A courier approaching a town was quickly sur-
rounded by crowds of people, begging for news ; at times he
escaped unhurt ; often he was roughly treated and forced to
furnish some kind of information as to the contents of the
letters he carried. Couriers would go miles out of their way to
avoid the dangerous curiosity of the town folk, which gene-
rally they dared not satisfy even though they could. Mean-
time, writers, ever suspicious of the couriers, guarded their
letters carefully. Many of these written secrets of bygone
days still remain in public libraries and ancestral mansions.
It is interesting to note the contrivances to which the writers
had resorted : the paper is usually folded with great precision,
and fastened at the end by a paper strap, upon which is the
seal, whilst under the seal, a piece of string, silken thread, or
sometimes a straw, is found running round the letter.
Owing to the jealousies of ex-Postmasters-General, and
those newly appointed to that office, and to other disturbing
influences, affrays would at times take place when "violent
hands were laid upon the mails, on which occasions the high
authorities would side with one or the other." We read how,
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220 5/. Jamefs Magazine.
one night, " Mr. Prideaux, the Attorney-General, actively
assisted in the seizure of the mail from Plymouth, as it was
being carried into the Post Office which had been opened by
the Earl of Warwick, near the Royal Exchange."
During the rule of the Stuarts, and also in the time of the
Commonwealth, when plots were suspected, the letters were
repeatedly intercepted, and a committee appointed to open
and read them. " It hath been found by experience," we read
in an Act of Parliament (1657) . . . "the best means ... to
discover and prevent many dangerous and wicked designs
which have been, and are, daily contrived against the peace
and welfare of the Commonwealth, the intelligence whereof
cannot well be communicated but by letters of escript."
Many intercepted letters are preserved to this day among our
collections of old State Papers.
Part II.
The modern history of the Post Office, which started afresh in
the reign of Queen Anne, may be divided into three periods :
I. That of frequent robberies and delays, when letters were
conveyed in light carts, or on horseback ; that is, until
1784.
II. That of comparative swiftness, security, and punctuality,
when the suggestion of mail coaches was adopted,
1784— 1839.
III. That of marvellous rapidity, and almost unerring
punctuality and security, when the steam-engine of
the railway superseded the mail coach, 1839 — 1876.
The last era may be subdivided into the times before and
after the institution of the Penny Post.
An Act of Parliament passed in Queen Anne's reign
entirely repealed the former Post Office statutes, and placed
the whole institution on a new foundation, establishing a
General Post Office in London for the British dominions, with
chief offices at Edinburgh, Dublin, New York, and other
places in the American colonies, at that time still under
British rule : there was also an office at the Leeward Islands
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A CJiat about the Post Office. 221
All was placed under the control of the Postmaster-General,
who now held his appointment under the Great Seal, and was
empowered to nominate deputies at the chief offices. A
survey of post-roads was commanded, rates of postage, modes
of conveyance reconsidered, and many reforms brought about.
There was, however, a retrograde movement in one respect —
that is^is regards ^e practice of opening letters, which for the
first time received, under specified circumstances, a parliamen-
tary sanction, power being granted to the Secretary of State
to order the opening of private letters for judicial and political
purposes : a special warrant was required, but it is a signifi-
cant fact that for nearly a century after the Act was passed it
was not the custom to keep any record of such warrants in
the official books. This practice of opening letters was at
last so abused as to become useless to the State and most
exasperating to the people. In 1722, when Bishop Atterbury
was discovered in favouring the schemes of the Old Pretender,
and was brought to trial, a clerk of the Post Office gave
witness against him founded on what he had gathered from
his letters. " Had you any express warrant," asked the Bishop,
u under hand of the Principal Secretary of State for opening
these letters ? " It was clear that the clerk had acted solely
on his own responsibility ; for the Bishop was silenced by the
assertion from the bench that such questions were un-
necessary.
So carelessly were the letters guarded, that the " post-boys
or bellmen " (men generally over forty years of age) were
accustomed to open letters at their will. One of these
(in 1758) who was giving witness against Dr. Hensey as
being a Roman Catholic, on being asked, " How came you to
know that Dr. Hensey was a Roman Catholic?" replied,
44 When I have got all my letters together, I carry them home
and sort them. In sorting them, I observed that the letters
I received of Dr. Hensey's were generally to foreigners and
Jram abroad." "What had you to do with his religion ?" asked
one of the court. " I, knowing the Doctor to be a Roman
Catholic," replied the bellman, " advised the examining clerk
at the office to inspect his letters. We letter-carriers, he
ontinued, "have great opportunities of knowing the charac-
ters and dispositions of gentlemen ; from their servants, con-
nections, and correspondents. But to be plain, if I once learn
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222 St. James's Magazine.
that a person who lives a genteel life is a Roman Catholic, I
immediately look upon him as one who, by education and
principle, is an inveterate enemy to my king, my country, and
the Protestant religion."
At times, letters were opened merely to oblige a friend ;
thus in 1 741 we hear of a warrant being issued at the request
of a parent to permit his son, (a clerk at the Post Office, we
presume,) to open and inspect any letters which his younger
brother should send, if addressed to a young girl he had
imprudently married.
Under these circumstances, it is no matter of wonder that
the art of cypher-writing was much cultivated, or that the
profession of decyphering mysteriously written letters proved
very profitable. There was a secret office for this branch of
the postal duties, with its head clerk and others under him,,
who were ail well paid, as will appear from the following list
of salaries dated from the " Private Office for Inspection of
Letters " :—
Per Annum.
Chief Decypherer and his Son . . . ,£1000
Second Decypherer 800
Third Decypherer 500
Fourth Decypherer 200
Chief Clerk 650
Four other Clerks 300 each
Doorkeeper 50
Dr. Wallis, who lived during the civil wars, well known for
his high scientific attainments, was marvellously skilful in
decyphering, an art which it seems he justified himself in
exercising for the good of the State. In his autobiography-
he thus records his first experience of this occupation, in
which he subsequently achieved a series of wonderful suc-
cesses : —
" About the beginning of our civil wars, in the year 1642,
a chaplain of Sir William Wallis's one evening, as we were
sitting down to supper at the Lady Veres' in London, with
whom I was then dwelling as chaplain, shewed me an inter-
cepted letter written in cypher, and asked me between jest
and earnest whether I could make anything of it; and he
was surprised when I said, upon the first view, perhaps 1
might if it proved no more but a new alphabet. I then with-
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A Chat about the Post Office. 223
drew to my chamber to consider it ; and by the number of
different characters therein (not above 22 or 23), I judged
that it could not be more than a new alphabet, and in about
two hours' time, before I went to bed, I had decyphered it ;
and I sent a copy of it so decyphered the next morning to
him from whom I had it. And this was my first attempt at
<lecyphering. This unexpected success with an easy cypher
was then looked upon as a great matter, and I was some
while after pressed to attempt one of another nature."
This letter " of another nature," — one from Secretary Winde-
bank to his son, — Dr. Wallis writes, was " in so hard a cypher
as to not to be unbecoming a Secretary of State. ... I worked
at it," he adds, " backwards and forwards ; and after I had
*pent much time over it, threw it by as desperate ; but after
some months, resumed it again, and had the good hap to
master it. Being encouraged by this good success beyond
expectation, I afterwards ventured on many others — some of
more, some of less difficulty ; and scarce missed of any that
I undertook for many years during our civil wars and after-
wards."
At Oxford University may still be seen many of the letters
-over which Dr. Wallis spent hours of hard work : they are
kept together ; and on the wrapper which envelopes them are
inscribed these words : —
"A collection of several letters and other papers which were
at several times intercepted written in cypher ; decyphered
hy John Wallis, Professor of Geometry in the University of
Oxford. Given by him to the public library there AD. 1635."
( To be continued. )
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Valentine Humfrey's Trust,
a feketcl) m fefjc C&apterg*
By NORA NEVILLE.
CHAPTER II.
" INTRODUCTION."
WEEK has elapsed. During seven long days I
have thought of little else but that abominable
dinnerparty and its results, and blamed 'myself
over and over again for asking Mr. Humfrey to
dine with us.
Mac and I take our customary walks, and learn (at least I
do) the lessons which are given me ; though sometimes I am
so absent-minded that I do not even hear Miss Macdragon's
question, and I am only roused by hearing her say,
" What can have come to the child ? She becomes more
inattentive every day."
This morning, however, I am not quite so troublesome, for
a fresh interest has sprung up for me. In this wise. Whilst we
are at breakfast, papa notices for the first time how ill I an*
looking, and asks me " What is the matter ? "
I laugh and say, 4< Nothing at all, only I feel rather dull."
" Suppose we try and find out something to cheer my little
daughter," says he.
To that arrangement I am quite agreeable, so going round
to him, I seat myself by his side, and tell him to propose
something, and if it meets with my approval we will carry it out
" What do you say to a picnic, Florrie ? "
" Glorious ! " I exclaim. " I shall think you are a magician
for that was the very thing I was wishing for."
" Well, the weather is most lovely, and I suggest we fix it
for this day week (Tuesday). That will give you plenty of
time to make all your arrangements, for I don't intend to do
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Valentine Humfrey's Trust. 225
anything towards it but pay the expenses and honour the
entertainment with my presence."
With that he throws down the newspaper, kisses me fondly,
and leaves the room.
I hasten up to tell Mac (who is indulging in bed with a
severe headache), and regardless of the shock it may be to
her nervous system, I rush into her room, saying,
" Hurrah ! We are to have a picnic, Mac dear, and I am
to spend all the money for it, and arrange everything ; so do
get up, and come out with me to see about things."
" Is the picnic to-day, then, that you are in such a hurry ? "
" No," I exclaim, " to-day week ; but I am sure we have
not got too much time to prepare."
Poor sick Mac sits up in bed, looking very yellow (I always
say her headaches are a compound of bile and bad temper)*
and remarks,
"You have not yet told me who is coming."
" I can't tell you what I do not know myself," I say, rather
impatiently.
" Then before you do anything else, you had better write
and invite those persons you wish to be present."
" Why, of course," I say ; " I quite forgot the most important
part of the affair, you dear, old, practical, worldly thing ; "
and in the exuberance of my spirits, I fling my arms round
her neck and give her a kiss ; then bursting out laughing, I
say,
II What a good' thing I came to consult you, or we should
have to eat all the things ourselves, for I never gave a thought
to the people."
I sit down at the foot of her bed, and begin to think who I
shall ask ; and after due consultation, we agree that a small
and well-chosen party is preferable to a lot of uncongenial
people.
So we decide that Mr. and Mrs. Humfrey, the Rev. Brown
and his son and daughter (Charlie and Katie), and our four
selves shall comprise the company.
" Yes, Mac," I say, " that will make a very nice select party.
I shall have Charlie for my attendant, and you can have Mr.
Brown, as I know your partiality for the cloth."
"Who is to be Katie's escort ?" says Miss Macdragon.
s* " Oh dear me ! I quite forgot that. I suppose she must
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226 Si. James's Magazine.
have some one, so we will ask little Jack Fleming. I believe
he's rather fyris with her."
Presently Mac observes,
" You go and write the letters, Florrie, whilst I dress, but
do not send them out until I have seen them."
I go down to the library, and at once proceed to pen the
invitations, and have just finished the last when Mac arrives
on the scene.
She scans my effusions and placing them in their respective
envelopes, puts them on the hall table to be posted.
During the two following days no one knows a moment's
peace with me. Half my time goes in asking the servants
whether there are any letters for me, and the other half in
imploring Mac to come out with me to buy the things
requisite. Poor Mac ! what must she have suffered, to produce
the most (for her) irritating observation of —
" If you wish to offer your friends, next Tuesday, food in
a high state of decomposition, we ought to go at once and
order everything in ; but I assure you, my dear, that Monday
morning will be quite time enough to-do all that is necessary."
Evening brings my answers. The Browns accept ; also the
Humfreys, conditionally that they may bring their son Valen-
tine with them. Jack Fleming declines with many regrets.
I show the letters to Miss Macdragon, who says,
44 Katie won't come short of a cavalier after all, so you have
no need to be anxious about anything."
" Must I extend the invitation to their son ? " I ask Mac
very seriously.
" Of course. What else can you do, unless you wish them
to stay away ? "
" I suppose, then, I must," I say with a sigh, and take the
letters for papa to see.
" You need not write, my dear," he says. " To-morrow,
when you are out walking, call at Truro Lodge, and say wt
shall be delighted."
With the air of a martyr I accede to his request, and the
next morning Mac and I start off on our mission.
On our arrival at the house, we are told that every one is
out ; so, leaving a polite message to the effect that we shall
he very pleased to see Captain Humfrey with his parents, we
turn towards home.
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Valentine Hum/rey's Trust. 227
As soon as we are fairly indoors, Mac proposes lessons,
saying,
"Now, my dear Florence, as all the excitement of your
picnic is over for the present, I think you ought to resume
your studies till Monday."
"Every one thinks differently" I reply pertly; "and I
don't feel a bit in the mood for studying. It is such dry
work."
Mac looks horror-stricken as she answers,
" If I had thought as you do when I was a girl, I should
probably have starved in a garret, although at the time I was
learning I never thought I should want to use it as I now
have to. I had a home as comfortable as yours, Florrie.''
She ceases speaking, and I remember papa saying that all
my money was gone. Suppose I had to marry Valentine, or
go out in the world to earn ray living, the latter contingency
would decidedly be preferable. Mac is quite right. I must
cram in a lot of information, for no one knows what may
happen.
With that reflection, I go off to the schoolroom to prepare
my usual studies, but I find I cannot apply myself to any-
thing. The piano is shut with a slam, the sketch-board
kicked across the room, and in its turn everything is put on
one side, till, with a great sigh, I jump up and run down to
find papa.
" What brings my little maiden here ? " says he as I enter
the library.
" Oh, daddy dear, I can't get through my lessons to-day,
so do take me out somewhere."
" I can't do that, my child, for I have just received a
telegram which calls me up to town by the next train, on a
pressing matter of business. You know I never allow pleasure
to stand in my way when there is anything to da"
" You'll be home before the picnic, won't you, papa ? "
14 I'm afraid not, dear ; but if I can possibly get my business
done before, you may be sure nothing shall keep me."
" Can't we put it off ? " I say rather anxiously.
" No, no," says papa. " Look after your mother, and make
yourself as happy as you can during my absence. Don't
worry Miss Macdragon. For the rest, do as you liks."
" Exactly as I like ? "
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228 Si. James's Magazine.
' "Yes.*
"Then I'll get up a strong flirtation with Mr. Humfrey,
and write every day to tell you how it progresses."
I Cannot attempt to describe the consternation which is
visible on papa's countenance. He looks at me with virtuous
indignation, and says,
"I am quite surprised, Florrie, to hear such a sentiment
from you. I thought you were above such free ideas."
I know full well that he is quite in earnest, but pretending
not to notice it, say laughingly,
u Free ideas, papa ! You can't think I meant to flirt with
old Mr. Humfrey ?"
" Who then, Miss ? " he says, half smiling.
u Why Valentine is to be the subject for experiment."
At which papa's assumed gravity vanishes, and he laughs
loudly (though I fancy I can detect an anxious tone in his
voice) as he says,
" Well, puss, you may do as you like in that direction, as
he's a nice fellow and reputed ' an eligible Parti'. Only don't
carry your fun too far, as in these times young girls can't be
too particular in respect to their actions, for however precise
they may be there is always some malicious person who will
find a spiteful thing to say."
" But the seaside is not like London for that, is it, papa ? "
" Certainly it is ; for even at the seaside conventionalities
must be respected."
I promise to behave as the female representative of the
Brabazons should do, and we then go in to luncheon, which
has been ordered earlier on account of papa having to catch
the train.
After we have finished eating, papa goes to say goodbye
to mamma, and when he comes down again I am in the hall
ready to take my farewell of him.
He kisses me fondly, shakes hands with Mac, then jumps
into the carriage and orders the man to " drive sharp."
I spend the rest of that day, and indeed all the days till
Monday, in the most exquisite idleness. Not one fixed duty
do I perform, except writing every evening to papa. Sunday,
the Humfreys call, and tell me they expect their son down
on the morrow, and inwardly I am busy conjecturing what he
will be like.
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Valentim Humfrey's Trust. 229
But Monday brings so many other things to think of, that
the gallant Captain passes completely out of my mind. Mac
and 1 are out all the morning until dinner-time (we dine early
while papa is away), and again go out directly afterwards.
Having concluded our purchases, we are wending our way
towards home, when in turning the corner of a street I almost
rush into the arms of some one, who, on inspection, proves to
be a decidedly handsome man, about twenty-five years of age.
There is the unmistakable air of a gentleman about him,
as he raises his hat, and mutters an apology for not seeing
me.
I bow, and pass on, Mac observing (as soon as we are out
of earshot),
" Why don't you look where you are walking, Florence ? "
To which I rejoin, with a giggle,
" If I were sure of always falling over such a good-looking
man, I'd walk with my eyes shut all day long."
Mac's disgust knows no bounds. She declares she will tell
papa on his return that she finds me too much for her manage-
ment and resign her situation. Upon that I offer her my
humble apologies, and promise faithfully not to shock her
friorals more than I can possibly help, for I am really very
fond of her, and should be sorry if she left.
We make peace, and for the rest of the evening I conduct
myself in the most irreproachable manner.
We retire to bed early in order to be quite fresh for the
coming picnic, and I sleep through the long night without
even a dream to trouble my repose.
When I open my eyes in the morning, I see Mac nearly
dressed standing by my bedside.
" Come, you lazy child," she says, " it's past eight, and as
we leave here at ten, you will not have too much time to
spare."
I am in the act of putting on my hat (which is very pretty
and becoming), when Polly, the household domestic, enters
my room with what I at once detect to be a bouquet in her
hand.
u This is for you, Miss, came just now."
And 1 hastily snatch it from her, and remove the paper, to
view a most choice mass of flowers.
She exclaims, " How grand ! " ^
& Digitized by LnOOgle
230 St. James's Magazine. .
But I say, "Who can have sent it ? " As I speak a card
falls from among the lace which adorns the border, and to
my surprise I find it bears the name of Captain V.
Humfrey.
At this juncture Mac comes in, and I at once remark,
" Mustn't he be mad to send me such a glorious bouquet
when he does not even know me ? "
And I hold up the card for her inspection.
"Not mad, but very polite," says Mac; "but as all your
friends are here, you had better come down at once."
We go into the room together, and the first thing which meets
my gaze is the very young man who so nearly knocked me
down yesterday. In less time than it has taken me to write,
I find myself being introduced to Valentine, who says in a
languid manner,
"You hardly need introduce us, father, for we have met
before. Haven't we ? " (with a grin).
" Yes," I exclaim, " and a very unpleasant meeting it was,
for we nearly knocked one another down."
The waggonette being announced, we all go out and take
our seats. I am placed between Charlie Brown and Valentine,
and it is not till the former asks " Who gave me my lovely
flowers, whose loveliness I eclipse " (at least so he says), that
I remember I have not yet thanked the donor, which I at
once do, saying,
" You must think me very rude, Captain Humfrey, for not
acknowledging your kindness before."
" Not at all," he says, with a smile (which, notwithstanding
my prejudice against him, I consider beautiful); " not at all ; I
am sufficiently thanked by seeing them in your fair hand."
(Are they fair, though ! he should see them without gloves.
They're as brown as a berry.)
After a few more words he turns to Katie, who sits on the
other side of him, and they begin to talk most confidentially,
much to my annoyance, not because I want him myself, but
it does seem absurd that he should neglect me to pay atten-
tion to such a very plain girl as Kate Brown.
The reader of this will perhaps say I am jealous, but no,
jealousy never was one of my crimes. Indeed, I don't know
the girl I would lower myself to envy !
( To be continued.)
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Olla Podrida.
^OME explanation of the design of the cover with
which we commenced our new series has been
asked. A scene in the life of the Spanish
champion is chosen from amongst those of his
adventures in the East. St. James arrived before Jerusalem
in time to take part in a fierce conflict which was raging
between the king of that city and some of the neighbouring
princes, and the champion so distinguished himself in the fray-
that he carried all things before him, and put the enemies of
the monarch to route with terrific slaughter. The King of
Jerusalem was so delighted with his heroic deeds that he offered
him honour and glory in his city, but when he proposed to
St. James to remain with him, the hero proclaimed himself a
faithful follower of Christ. Thereupon the King, at once and
without a trial, condemned the Saint to death, but in con-
sideration of his bravery permitted the warrior to choose the
manner of his execution.
"Then," said the Saint, "I elect to be tied to a tree with
bare breast and devoid of armour, while the fairest virgin in
the city shall be my executioner, and pierce my bosom with
a dart"
The King kept his word, and the Saint was bound, with
naked breast and bare brow, to a palm tree. His armour was
laid by his side, and the warriors of Jerusalem gathered near to
witness his death. They cast lots among the virgins of the
city to discover the most beautiful, and it so chanced that the
ot fell upon the King's daughter, a lady renowned throughout
Palestine for her beauty and goodness. She armed herself with
the deadly weapon to carry out her father's cruel command.
But when she approached to slay the Saint, his noble bearing
overcame her resolution, and she knelt before him in admi-
ration and wonder. She loved him, and gave him a ring
bearing the motto " Ardeo affectiojie," and released him from
his bonds,
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~32 St. Jameses Magazine.
Such is a brief sketch of the history as told in the ancient
chivalric record of the adventures of the seven champions of
Christendom, and being characteristic of the Saint's career
we have taken the scene for our frontispiece.
There is generally a lull in the literary world after Christmas.
With the exception of the appearance of one or two new
journals, little of interest has transpired. Truth has issued
from the press with a symbolical cover and a well-printed
interior. Yorick is the name of a new comic paper. There
cannot well be too much " truth," but of witty journals there
is already a plethora. Still the new aspirant to public favour
appears worthy the effort of its proprietors, and will establish
a reputation amongst its contemporaries if continued in the
clever manner 6f its early numbers. Mr. S. R. Towjishend
Mayer has edited two volumes of the " Life and Letters of
Mrs. Browning." We regret very much that a long and serious
illness prevented him from completing the heavy labour
attaching to this work by the time announced for its publica-
tion, but we are happy to hear of his recovery, and the re-
sumption of his pen will be matter of congratulation to those
who have looked forward to the pleasure of the perusal
of these volumes of interesting biography. Mr. F. Malcplm
Doherty has sent us a little volume of poems. He is pos-
sessed of many of the chief qualifications of a poet, and writes
with grace and elegance. His subjects are well chosen, and
the book worthy a perusal. Many of the smaller pieces in it
deserve reading more than once. Mr. Robert Buchanan's
novel, " The Shadow of the Sword," appears to be acquiring
well-merited popularity. There is much fine writing through-
out the work, and the plot has a special interest, though there
is nothing of the usual novel character about it. " Madcap
Violet" is in its first volume the prettiest romance that has
fallen in our way for some long time. Unfortunately, the
second and third volumes are singularly prosy and unenter-
taining. They appear to have been written hastily.
The frightful tragedy at the Brooklyn Theatre seems to have
scared away many intending visitors from the theatres during
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Olla Podrida. 233
the last few weeks. A panic of this kind is not unnatural,
and it is a pity the loss resulting from public apprehension*
does not fall on the proprietors, who build their houses without
regard to the safety of playgoers, rather than on the compara-
tively innocent managers and lessees. In a colonial theatre,
we read that a Miss Montague has made quite a sensation
with her impersonation of Hamlet The diamond-fields
are a long way ofF, but they seem to have an advantage over
ourselves in being able to thoroughly appreciate Shakspeare.
Among our London houses, with the exceptions of the
pantomimes and " Biorn," a new dramatic opera, there is no
piece worthy of special notice.
The meeting of Parliament is fixed for the 8th of February
and we may shortly expect to hear much talk about the con-
duct of the Government in their European policy* Of course
the Liberal party will not be satisfied with the result of the
Conference, and the Conservative party on its side will have
enough to do to defend themselves from the attacks of
rivals. Popular feeling is in much the same state as before,
but it has had time to let off alTsuperfluous steam ; and when
the Eastern question comes to be considered by our statesmen
assembled in Parliament, sensation meetings wfll be no more,
and St. Stephen's, rather than St. James's Hall, will dictate
the good sense* of the nation. Our contemporaries have been
very busy discussing the question of the integrity of the
Ottoman Empire, but the conclusions at which they have
arrived, as usual, tend to nothing very definite. The article in
the Church Quarterly was about the best of those upon the
subject. A little patience will solve the Eastern question for
us, and we shall not live to see a nation of brave men deprived
of its integrity and swept aside to satisfy the ambitious designs
of a neighbour, or tfye religions fanaticism of a party of mis-
guided if well-meaning people.
It is now eight years since the Royal Academy inaugurated
a winter season, and the success of these exhibitions has
proved that their efforts have not been thrown away. The
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234 &• James's Magazine.
generous manner in which the possessors of art treasures have
come forward to the assistance of the Academy needs no
comment, and the public have good reason to be thankful to
all persons connected with the Exhibition. We have on the
present occasion to notice a remarkably fine collection of
pictures by the "old masters." If not so rich in works of
high iuterest as those of former years, it is nevertheless fully
deserving of more than one visit from all true lovers of art
Space will not allow us to go into detail on the individual
merit of the works of such well-known artists as Gainsborough,
Etty, Reynolds, Vandyck, Rubens, Teniers, and others here
exhibited. There is one Greuze< not perhaps very remarkable,
and the Veroneses will hardly be considered fine specimens of
that artists work by those who have seen his masterpieces in
foreign galleries. Perhaps two of the finest pictures are Con-
stable's " Dedham Vale " and Claude Lorrain's " Classical
Subject." The latter is lent by A. J. Robarts, Esq., and for
beauty of design, delicate colouring, and artistic treatment is
unequalled. A Murillo will also attract some attention, as the
figures are in that artist's happiest style. It is hardly possible
to spend an afternoon better than by visiting Burlington House
during the continuance of the present exhibition.
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VOL. I.
Digitiz
^ky Google
" I have often taken it forth in my arms to the river side." [&?/. 253.
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Promethia.
By ELLIS J. DAVIS,
AUTHOR OF "SEEN FROM THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL'S," ETC.
CHAPTER XII.
SOME LUNATICS.
^HE next morning I was up earlier than usual, for I
could not get any sleep. Somehow the idea that
the doctor had a sinister design upon me rose to
my mind every few moments during the night,
and made me watchful and wakeful while the hours of dark-
ness continued. Towards morning fatigue had given me
slumber, but not for long ; and once awake again, I felt too
strong and restless to remain in bed. I dressed carefully and
found my way down to the room I had occupied on the previous
day. I passed the time away with yesterday's morning
paper until breakfast was announced — at which meal the doctor
made his appearance, but Promethia did not accompany him.
He was in excellent spirits, and expressed his surprise when I
told him how badly I had passed the night.
" It is because you are getting too strong," he smiled ; and
soon after added, " Now, if you have finished your breakfast,
I am at your service for the walk round you proposed last
night;'
I confess I had some anxiety to see Promethia before starting,
for it struck me if my host meant me evil — and I cannot say
I had dismissed all suspicion of his intentions — it would be
just at this time, when I was wholly in his power, that he would
try and take advantage of me ; "And how," I thought, "shall
I like to be shut in a cell as a lunatic, and perhaps imprisoned
for years ? " But after all this fear was rather childish, for
what possible good could he get by injuring me ? And was
I not sufficiently well known at my hotel and elsewhere in
236 5/. Jatnefs Magazine.
London for inquiries to be set on foot if I were missed and
not heard of for any length of time ? So I rose, conquered
my absurd apprehension, and expressed myself ready to
accompany him.
Without appearing to notice my hesitation, he led the way
to the second story of the establishment, in which the rooms
of his patients were situated. The staircase conducted us to
the extremity of a long passage well lit from windows at either
end by day and provided with a great number of gas brackets
for nocturnal illumination. He explained, apropos of these,
that he had often to be about in the night with a great many
things, and to send to and fro for others, and thought it as
well to have plenty of light in case of accidents. On either
side of the passage were rows of doors not very close together,
leaving ample room for climbers of considerable dimen-
sions. We walked up to the extreme end, at which there was
a narrow staircase of iron : down these stairs a man could go,
or rather climb, if he were very cautious ; but there was a high
rail on either side, and it seemed to be exceedingly difficult
to get at them at all. It resembled rather a winding step-
ladder than a staircase, and this railing was more like a barrier
to ones entrance upon the steps from the passage than a hand-
rail. Natural curiosity led me to look down the shaft ; and I
noticed that it descended to a very great depth, and had but
one or two stages between the bottom and the top, on which
to alight and join the different landings. The lower portion
was lost in complete obscurity. I was attracted to some
considerable extent by this ladder, and felt a great inclination
to ask permission to descend ; but the doctor called me away,
and intimated that he was about to visit the first of the patients
at hand.
" This room," he said, pausing with his grasp on the handle
of the door of the chamber at the extremity of the passage, " is
the room of one of the most unfortunate of my inmates. She is
fearfully violent at times, and you must not pay the least atten-
tion to anything she does or says. She may be quiet or violent ;
it is all a chance what mood you find her in."
We entered, and found it a fair-sized room, and well lighted,
though the window was strongly barred on the inside, and
the latticed ironwork before it shut out some of the daylight.
The walls had a very peculiar appearance, being padded on
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Promethia. 237
all sides and up to a considerable height, like the cushions
of a railway carriage. A dark brown-black cloth covered
them, giving a somewhat sombre tint to the general aspect of
the surroundings ; and the floor, being also padded and draped
with the same material, looked heavy and dull, like a wool
mat. There were but two pieces of furniture in the room —
which consisted of a chair, with legs, back and seat closely
padded in a similar manner to the walls and floor, and a piano
also protected with cloth and wadding. In one corner of the
room a niche had been built, which contained the patient's
bedchamber, separated and concealed from our view by heavy
curtains. There seemed to have been considerable expenditure
in getting the room ready for the reception of its turbulent
inhabitant, who was sitting on the floor with her hands clasped
in her lap, and a book flung on one side, as if she had been
reading or making an attempt to read. In person she was
a fair and delicate looking woman. At first sight I thought
her feeble and weak, but when she rose and advanced a little
towards us, I tould see the powerful muscles of her frame
distended, and the breadth of jaw and the size of her neck indi-
cated great bodily strength. There was, however, no cause to
fear violence; for an instrument held her arms in a manner which
prevented her doing anything dangerous to herself or others,
and the room was provided with an apparatus of nets and wires,
by means of which, as the doctor explained to me later on,
she could be thrown upon the ground without injury to her
person, and while in that position more effectually secured if
such a course became necessary. There was no doubt that she
had been a fine woman in her time ; and though now above
thirty, and evidently the prey of frequent and acute suffering,
she had still an attractive presence to recommend her. She
came forward and stood erect, but said nothing.
" Good morning, Carry," was the doctor's greeting. " Have
you had a good night ? "
At the sound of his voice she roused herself, and was about
to reply, when she saw me, and in a moment burst forth into
a wild passion of utterances, from which I gathered the fol-
lowing : —
" Oh, do save me ! You are the first chance I have had for
so long. I have gold — I have money. I have plenty; and you
shall have it all if you get me out, I must be free. He
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238 Si. James's Magazine.
keeps me here to murder me. He will do it. Not yet — not
yet ; but perhaps when he has consumed my flesh bit by bit
Look ! look what he has done. Oh, save me ! save me!"
Her voice became wild and screaming, while she pulled up
the sleeve of her attire, a loose dressing-gown sort of garb,
and showed me her arm. It had the marks of many scars
upon it, and I half turned to the doctor for some explanation
of the appearance.
" Carry, come/1 said he, " be quiet."
" Ah no ! not now. Justice ! justice ! " she shrieked in a wild
paroxysm, and seizing me by the coat sleeve. " He has nearly
murdered me. He has cut my flesh from off my bones while
I live. He will kill me soon. Oh! I have friends, I have
money, and I will give you all — all, if you will but save me.
Save me ! save me ! I know you can if you will. Oh, save
me!"
And she shrieked out " Save me ! " in a wild piercing voice,,
till even the padded walls appeared to live to the echoes of her
terrible anguish, and the sound of her agonised utterances
found entrance into my very soul. The doctor stood calmly
looking on at a little distance, not heeding her seizure of my
arm, well knowing she could do me no damage ; and watching,
as I thought, to see what effect her ravings produced upon
my nature. I must confess that a certain amount of realistic
feeling went through my frame while I listened to her fierce
denunciation of him, and heard the wild words of this entreaty
to be saved from her guardian. But then she was mad, and I
well knew the vagaries of madness. It is often the case that
a lunatic thinks the doctor or keeper a deadly foe — a wicked
man guarding him or her for evil purposes. Her excitement
grew wilder and wilder; she shrieked aloud, and appeared
about to try and rend off the bonds which secured her firmly
though not hurtingly, but here the doctor interfered. His
hand was placed gently on her brow, from which she tried to
shake it off in vain. After one or two attempts she let hint
keep it there, and the pressure seemed to quiet her nerves.
" Come and sing me a song, Carry dear," he said, in a most
gentle voice, and leading her as he made the request towards
the piano. " You are in good voice to-day, I am sure.,,
He seated himself at the instrument ; and no sooner had she
heard the first few notes struck, than she quieted down and
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Promethia. 239
stood beside him ready to do his bidding. He played with
great power and sweetness, though the padding of the instru-
ment and of the room almost deadened the sound ; and as the
music rose she drew closer to him, charmed as it were into
silence by the magic of the melody, until at last she opened
her lips and began a Scotch ballad, "Auld Robin Grey."
How sweetly her notes came forth in the stillness of that
room ! How beautifully she sang, and yet so very sadly that
I almost melted into tears; and I could see, too, the musician
was visibly affected, though perhaps not so much as he should
have been if his heart were pure and true. It was as if she
were singing of her own bygone life. Perhaps she looked
back on something as sad as the poor Scotch girl's past love
and present despair, and perhaps he knew it. For my part I
was pleased, but rendered very sad and sorrowful, and I turned
away, and was almost glad when she finished her song.
" Now, Carry/' said he, rising, " be a good girl until this
evening, and I'll come again."
Tears were running down her cheeks now. She was crying
like a child, and completely at his mercy. Her manner was
ail obedience to his will. He seated her in the chair, and
turned to me saying —
"Poor thing! There has been little mercy shown in the
creation of such a being, so blighted and yet so sensible and
sensitive, and so mad. Ah ! " And yet it was not a genuine
sigh with which he ended his speech and gave utterance to
this moral reflection.
We walked on in silence — I not feeling at all inclined to
reply to the observation, which to my mind lacked sincerity
and he apparently absorbed in thought. At the third door
he halted.
" In here," he said, " is a patient of quite a different character.
But I to-day expect to find her in a calm and composed
mood. Her failing is a weariness of life, and she is every now
and then attempting suicide. She has an idea that a dog
or some other animal is drinking her blood ; so do not be
shocked."
We entered a chamber furnished with great taste, if not
luxuriousness, and walked on a velvet-pile carpet. In reply
to my inquiring glance he said —
" Money is no object with this lady's friends, and they are as
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240 S/. James's Magazine*
anxious as I am to surround her with every comfort that can
make a life happy. She was one of the handsomest women I
ever saw when first I attended her, and is a great beauty
now, though her health has been failing lately."
The patient came forward from a sofa on which she had
been half sitting, half lying, and held out her hand to me
with the air of a duchess.
" I am proud to receive you," she said, " and shall be glad
if you \vill make yourself at home. I am not very well, but
you will excuse me, I know."
She sat down on a chair, and motioned me to another,
while the doctor went on and passed into the inner, or ante-
chamber.
" You will, I hope, feel better in a day or two," said I,
wishing to return her politeness and invite her confidence.
" Never," she replied, drawing near to me, and whispering,
" Never, while I am here. I was well, but he has drunk my
blood. You see — the dog, the dog ! "
I fancied there was some meaning hidden beneath these
words. Certainly she had neither the air nor the manner of
a mad woman.
" You are not well, then, nor happy ? "
" Not well — not happy. Who ever was here ? That dog,
he bites me and he sucks my blood. Ah ! but he feeds me
well, to make more/'
" Where is the dog ? " asked I, determined to arrive at some-
thing definite. " Shall I kill him for you ? "
She laughed wildly.
" He will kill you. Go ! go ! go ! before it is too late. I am
not mad, but you are mad to be here. Ha ! he will have you,
sure enough."
She looked wildly around, as if she feared something
was about to make an attack upon her ; but I persuaded her
to be quiet and tell me all about herself. She paused, she
looked me in the face, and seemed to resolve to trust me ; but
just as she was about to speak the doctor returned, and she
held up her hands, crying, " The dog— the dog ! He will bite
me, and drink deep ! deep ! deep ! "
I was in a maze ; my head swam round. The vagaries of
these poor mad creatures perplexed me, and I began to fear
that if I remained here much longer my own brain would
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Promethia. 241
turn, or I should be led into imagining my kind host, who had
taken so much care of me when in misfortune and trouble,
was plotting some dark thing against my life ; and, then, too, I
thought of Promethia, and was ashamed of myself for being
so weak. Love has this strengthening effect upon most men
— that if but for the sake of the loved one a man is careful
to try and be strong ; " and so," I thought, " will I be."
The doctor, however, saw that the interviews with these two
women had affected me, and he considered it best to take me
away.
" My dear Mr. Harte," he said, " the iron nerves you boast
of cannot stand everything ; and this has been a little too
much for you. Good-bye, Lady Tremain" (this to the patient) :
"you will dine with us to-night if you can leave the dog
alone."
She said she would, and rose to bid good day to both of
us.
"What a lovely woman ! " said I involuntarily, when she
had shown us to the door and shaken hands with me in the
most friendly manner.
"Yes, and accomplished : she will dine with us to-night, if
she pleases ; but she is full of caprice. I always let her have
a treat, as she considers it, when her fit is not bad ; and what
she said to you was nothing."
" But if the fit came on downstairs ? "
"Well, then it is simple enough to remove her. You have
not seen half the appliances in my possession. I think we will
see them now to-day, and leave the rest of my patients until
another time."
I assented, and he took me into the after part of the house.
There he showed me machines without number, and of infinite
variety, for the exercise, management, health and comfort of
his lunatic patients : straps which when worn were invisible or
visible ; chairs in which they could be secured and carried about
anywhere ; dresses so padded that when encased in one of them
it would be impossible for the patient with the utmost violence
to injure himself; helmets to prevent the head being damaged
by falling about ; and caps to suit all sizes, for the wearing of
cooling applications all through the day and night when
necessary. Then he showed me one or two untenanted rooms,
provided with special comforts and other arrangements for
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242 Si. Jameses Magazine.
the treatment of the disease which he professed to guard ; and
finally he showed me the dark cell — a place, as he said, only
used in the most extreme cases.
" Indeed, I should hope so," said I, as I looked into its
depths.'
It was black, like a coal-cellar, and just the size of a human
body laid lengthwise. The person was put in feet first, as one
might shove in a sack, and then the door, a thin piece of wood
with a small breathing hole in it, secured over the entrance.
The doctor told me that in some cases the use of this punish-
ment was the only thing to which he could have resort with
any chance of success. We next inspected the basement of
the building, and found it likewise fitted up with every regard
for convenience and utility. The kitchen was a luxurious
establishment of its kind, and the cook, who stood in front of
the fire, seemed particularly well satisfied with the premises
she occupied.
When we had made the circuit of the whole house, we re-
turned to the library, which I habited ; and there I found
Promethia awaiting me, and apparently anxious about my
arrival, though she never raised her eyes as we entered, but
sat dumb and silent like a stone. Her face was a trifle pale,
as if she had been thinking earnestly ; but she did not make
any motion or utter a syllable until the doctor left us alone, .
saying he would have the pleasure of joining me at dinner.
Then I felt the presence of Promethia strong upon me,
and taking a chair by her side I spoke to her of what was
uppermost in my heart.
CHAPTER XIII.
" Promethia, why is it you greet me no more as before ?
What have I done to you ? Are you unhappy ? "
She raised her eyes to mine, and let them dwell upon me
with full power for some moments. She gently drew her
hand across her brow, and answered,
"Nothing. You are very good and kind; I do not know
why I feel like — like doing nothing but crying."
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Promethia. 245
"Tell me the truth. Does he, the doctor, behave badly to
you?"
" No, no," she exclaimed, almost wildly. " He is all good-
ness. Why should you ask me that ? "
" Because you seem to be afraid of him, and that should not
be. You are young and beautiful, and have everything around
you to make you happy ; and now I am going to offer you
something, more, if you will accept it and make me happy
with yourself."
She did not in the least appear to understand what I was
about to say ; neither did she shrink from me, nor show any
maidenly hesitation or fear. She only looked up at me with
rather wistful eyes, and let her hands fall over one another
listlessly on to her knee. I cannot say I felt this position of
hers an encouragement ; but my blood was no longer flowing
smoothly through my veins. I loved this woman madly,
and felt for her as I had never felt for another, and as I was
sure I never should feel again. With the wild reckless daring
of a passionate lover I determined to know if she would re-
turn my passion or doom me to love in vain. No woman had
ever yet refused to listen to my love. I had courted scornful
beauties in my young days, and many and many a conquest
might be recorded as having been made under the most
trying circumstances. Boldness is a quality which always
carries weight with the fair sex, and time and opportunity
are other important elements in successful wooing. These
things were my slaves ; and money, that most potent of
seducers, had been lavished by me with judicious taste when
the fair proved obdurate. But these experiences had been
but flirtations compared with my present passion for Prome-
thia. So far had it carried me that I forgot my word given
to the doctor, and only thought of how to deceive him into
the belief that the impression Promethia had made on me
was the very reverse of what it actually was. If she loved me,
if I could get her consent to crown my passion and become
mine, I felt my life would be entirely changed. I should
begin as it were afresh, with a wholly new existence ; and the
idea filled me with joyful sensations. But would she, did
she love me ? Had I conquered other women to be foiled
by her? My lips trembled as they opened to ask the
question.
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244 Si. James's Magazine.
" Promethia," I said, trying to take her hand, u I love you
as I never loved before, as I never shall love again. Mine
has been a strange life. I was born an old man, but I
shall grow younger. Love works all changes, and I love
you truly. You are to me the loveliest, the most perfect
woman I have seen or pictured. True, you may urge I have
not known you very long ; but there is no such thing as time to
perfect love, and my soul feels as if it had been in contact
with yours for ages instead of a few days. You are young
and lovely, and good and gentle, and everything that woman
should be. Had any one told me I should love you thus, I
would not have credited it, but you have unmanned me and
made me another being. I live for you alone. I am entirely
your slave, and at your mercy. Say, can you love me ? "
Over her face and her beautiful neck came no shade of blush-
ing blood. She listened as if she understood nothing at all
of what I was saying, and I almost doubted whether she had
heard my voice — whether my words had reached her senses.
Her expression scarcely altered from its marble coldness as
she said —
" What are you saying about me ? I do not mean to leave
here."
"Have you not listened to me, beloved Promethia?" I ex-
claimed wildly. " My heart is yours, and I have been telling
you so. Do not turn from me. Do not despise my devotion.
I will make you more happy than the most fortunate of
women. Everything your heart can desire, everything that
the whole world can produce, shall be yours ; and if you ask
for it you shall enjoy the wealth of an empire. I am very
rich. I can give you horses, carriages, a grand house, and
any number of servants. I can place every comfort and
enjoyment in your possession. As you please you shall travel
or live here. You shall be entirely your own mistress, and I
will be the slave to lie at your feet and meet and anticipate
all and every of your wishes/'
I spoke earnestly, passionately ; but how tame my words
were to express my feelings !
•f You do not know what you are asking," she replied at
length, slowly and sadly. "You do not know who I am, and
you do not know that I have no experience in what you have
been talking about and calling love. What is it you want ? "
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Promethia. 245
" Ah ! Promethia, is it possible that one so gifted has no
heart ? I can imagine that my love is not worthy of you, or
that you already love some one else ; but love as a pure and
holy sentiment, and love as a passion which sweeps away all
other considerations before it, you must know, if you have
even not yet felt the passion in all its force. Let me implore
you to believe in my devotion. Smile on me, and return your
fondest affection for mine."
She seemed affected, and swept her hand over her brow as
she answered me thus : —
" I do not know what you mean, but I am deeply grieved if
you are angry with me. You are the first person who has ever
been really kind but he, and he is not so always ; and usually
that is not kindness, but Well, he often says much that you
say, but I do not understand it. Be kind to ipe still. I will
come and see you ; I will sing the songs you like, and I will
read to you, and I will try and make you comfortable and
forget that I am so ignorant. But then you must not expect
me to understand all you have been talking about, for I do
not. You do not know me yet."
Certainly this speech of hers was strange. Had I frightened
her by a declaration made too soon, and would she learn to
love me when she knew me better ? I loved too deeply to
contemplate the idea of losing all hope of her love, at once and
for ever. I thought very likely my first conjecture was the
right one, and that I had been too premature in asking her
heart. I recollected that with very many maidens the passion
of love is a thing of slow growth, and as it was perfectly cer-
tain that Promethia liked me a little already, why not wait
patiently and see if time would not bring the passion I
hungered for ? She must be very young — probably much
younger than I imagined — and that might account for her
coyness. At any rate, it was evidently useless trying to get
from her a profession of love. Either she did not love
me, and had not the courage to say so, or her soul was as
yet too young and simple to understand what love meanjt.
I concluded my chances of success would be best enhanced
by dropping the subject for the present, and waiting for
time and opportunity to give me the power of winning
her love and convincing her of the real value of mine. We
remained silent for some moments, neither knowing what to
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246 Si. Jameses Magazine.
say, until I asked her to sing, and with my wish she complied
readily enough. Her songs were now always such as I had
mentioned as being favourites of mine ; she never sung that
strange weird melody, and accompanied herself in the manner
I had first heard her, but her voice continued to preserve its
sweetness ; and I loved to lie on the sofa and listen to its
sweet tones, while my eyes drank in the fulness of her rich
and perfect beauty.
In the evening we sat down to dinner with the doctor — a
party of three, as before, for the lunatic lady was not a guest,
as he had promised. There never seemed to be any visitors
to the house. Occasionally a servant would summon the
doctor from his meal to attend to some urgent case ; and once
or twice during my stay he told me he had been out all night
with a patient ; but, as a rule, his hands were kept full by
his own particular practice. At dinner it was nearly always
the same with Promethia. She sat placidly staring at her
plate, and only at rare intervals gave me a look of con-
fidence when he was not watching us. These glances .were
encouraging; but when we were alone together something
always prevented my renewing the conversation I had had
with her. Not that I was less anxious about the love I
coveted, but she did not seem to appreciate my passion ; and
I was anxious to be sure of her heart before I hazarded the
chance of a refusal.
So time went on ; and I had been with the doctor nearly
three weeks, when one day it occurred to me that I
ought to leave, and return to the busy world. Could I
go without Promethia ? And if I wanted Promethia I must
tell Doctor Delgardo that I had failed in my word, and ask of
him the hand I sought. Would he give her to me ? And if
he refused and found me out — supposing, as I had often
imagined, this woman was something more than a patient or
companion to him — what would be the result ? These thoughts
agitated my mind, and kept me from day to day thinking I
would speak to him, and putting it off again and again when
the opportunity came. All this time I passed the best part
of the day in the library, with Promethia for my companion ;
but she became so without the least embarrassment, and was
so quiet and gentle about the room that I very often knew
not when she came in or went out And, strange to say,
Promethia. 247
during all this period my old feelings of dulness and boredom
never once returned.
One day, by a mere accident, I met with the woman of the
haunted house — the woman who called herself the doctor's
wife, and whom I had not seen since the time when she was
flung into my room by the fury of Promethia. That act was
the only one of violence I had ever seen the beautiful girl
guilty of, and I had excused it in my own mind by the fact
that her assailant had called her ugly : a thing which every
woman with the least spark of pride or vanity — and what
woman has not these ? — feels bound to resent as an injury to
her sex as well as herself.
It occurred to me that this lady might at least be able to
solve for me one of the difficulties then agitating my mind. I
determined to conciliate her ; and as we were near my room,
I asked her to step in and sit down. She was very much
altered for the better — seemed stouter and more healthy ; but
there was still a wild and uncertain expression in her eyes,
and I could well understand from their appearance that there
might be something wrong with her intellect. She had called
herself the doctor's wife. I was rather anxious to hear
-whether she would persist in her claim to that title in her
sober senses. At present she 'appeared quite calm and col-
lected. Accordingly I addressed her as Mrs. Delgardo.
She smiled, and said —
"You believe me, then, before my cruel husband. I am
surprised to see you here still. Are you not better ? And
why do you not go ? This is no house for you."
"Excuse me/' I returned, quietly and civilly, "you must allow
me to be the best judge of how long I shall avail myself of the
doctor's hospitality. I am not in your way, I hope ? "
" In my way ! Have I any way here since that horror has
stood between us ? You are deceived, poor fellow, by bland
words and smiles; but you will suffer for it deeply, if you have
not lost something already." And she looked at my face, and
then eyed my body all over with a curious inquiring glance.
I was puzzled to understand her.
"May I ask for an explanation of this, Madame ? The doctor
has been so very kind to me, and Promethia makes herself so
amiable, that I do not like to hear a word against either of
theiIJ" Digitized by G00gle
248 " St. James's Magazine.
" Whatever I told you," she answered in a determined voice
" would not be believed by you. You are no wiser than others
have been. You would take me for a mad woman, and he
has told you I am so ; and then you would only laugh, and I
cannot endure the thought. It is hopeless : you are a poor
fly, and the net is around you ; you must remain in it, and
suffer as others have done."
There was a something, I know not exactly what, about her
tone which told me she was not mad ; and I felt alarmed to
think that there might be some evil intention to me and
Promethia on the part of the doctor. I thought he might
become dangerous to us both if I ever attempted to take the
girl away. I resolved, with the acute desire for knowledge
about a person for whom one entertains affection peculiar to
love, to learn everything which in any way affected Promethia's
happiness, and not to mind how the information came, so
long as it was reliable. I spoke to the woman before me
persuasively.
"You know something which you hold back from me, but
that is neither kind nor wise. I have done you no harm ;
neither have I, to my knowledge, injured anybody or anything
in this establishment. If the doctor means me evil, it will be
very wicked of him ; but you should not say so if you are not
prepared to tell me all about it, and warn me, so that I may
be fully able to meet or shun the danger."
" And if I told you everything about him, would you believe
it, even if you saw it with your own eyes ? "
" Oh, I am not so dreadfully infatuated with the doctor as
all that, and I value my own safety a little."
She paused before she answered me, and then spoke rapidly
thus, —
" To-night, then, at twelve or a little after, I will come for you.
You shall accompany me. You shall see them, and know all."
A footbtep in the passage startled her. She rose, and tried
to get out of the door and away before the new comer could
perceive her, but her movements were not quick enough.
. The step drew nearer, the handle of the door was turned
from without, and before she could make up her mind what
to do, the figure of a woman became visible, and Promethia
stood up in front of her enemy.
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Promethia.
CHAPTER XIV.
women's war.
The scene was essentially dramatic.
Promethia, pale and just a trifle disturbed by finding me
occupied with this lady, advanced into the room and stood
awaiting the result of her entrance, while her adversary first
backed towards me and finally sank into a chair by the table,
upon which she rested her hand and leaned her head on it.
She was evidently overcome, and for the first moments un-
equal to even looking at the face of the woman she disliked.
I, on my part, was too anxious to see and hear what passed
between them to make any movement Only I resolved that
I would not leave them alone together, and, if necessary,
should be quite prepared to interfere and protect Promethia
from the other ; though, from what I had seen of Promethia
and her wonderful strength, I had little doubt but that in a
personal encounter with one of her own sex she stood no
chance of being worsted.
The woman who called herself the doctor's wife was the
first to speak. Raising her head and looking steadily at the
girl, she said,
" So you are here again. Shall I never have peace from
seeing you ? "
" Peace," replied Promethia in her sweetest voice, — " how
do I disturb your peace ? I neither wake you at night, nor
intrude upon your privacy by day. You live as you like, and
my presence here is not a detriment to your happiness."
"Aye, you are always trying to be friends and get the
better of me. Is it not enough that you have driven me nearly
mad ? Is it not enough that in my husband's house I am
treated as a stranger, while you fill my place ? And must
you still thrust your abominable self upon my loneliness ? Go
away ! "
"Indeed/' answered the other gently, conscious to a painful
extreme of my presence, " I do not know why you think ill
of me always, and never allow me the chance of winning
your sympathy. I have not intruded upon you for a long,
long time ; and now my coming here was accidental, for I did
not know you were here at all."
VOL. I. tS
250 St. James's Magazine.
"Cant and nonsense! You know everything; you are a
fiend, — the fiend that has driven me nearly mad once, and will
try and do so again. You have taken from me all I loved,
all I lived for, and you still profess you would be friendly
and natural. You are no woman, but the child of hell — the
creature of evil!* '
It grieved me very much to hear the woman I loved spoken
to thus, but it seemed to me best to stand by and say nothing,
lest my interference should irritate the speaker more ; and I
wished to hear all she had to complain of, and find out the
reason of this deadly quarrel, with a view to its removal, if
possible.
" You have called me that before ; but I do not mind it,"
returned Promethia, " for you also said that I was ugly, and
he says I am beautiful and he is a better heart than you. If
I am in your way I will go, and never come back again, if he
will let me."
" Go ! Where will you, a thing of dread and fear, go ? "
I stepped forward, and held my arm to Promethia, saying,
" She shall come with me if she but says the word, and I
will protect her against all the world, and from you. She is
worthy of any man's loving protection."
But Promethia stood still, and did not respond to my
movement nor give any sign that my interference in her
behalf was acceptable to her. She crossed her arms on her
breast, and looked her opponent steadfastly in the face while
she said,
" I will once more appeal to you. We are not alone, but
that does not matter. Listen. It is neither my fault nor my
doing that I am here. You know — though I would not tell
him," indicating me — " how I came to be in this house. You
know it was no wrong on my part, but you have hated me all
along, though I have not deserved your hatred. When you
have lain ill I have nursed you, though you have never
known it In the still night I have stolen to your room and
placed cooling things on your fevered brow ; in the daytime
I have sung to you, and wakened a joy and a peace in your
soul with the notes of my harp. At evening I have soothed
you into slumber with the songs of the loves of the stars and
the voices of the moonbeams ; and when you became so cruel,
and called me— oh, such awful names, and tried to destroy me,
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Promethia. 25 1
I only smiled and suffered you to say what you liked, when I
could — and you know it — have crushed you to earth like a
worm ! And why have I done this ? Because you are his, and
he is to me what you well know. For his pleasure, for his
command, I will suffer far more. I owe it to him, though
often I thank him not for this life. Now, I am weary of this
striving for you and being treated with disdain, as you treat
me, For him I will bear even much more, but you must give
way to me a little. What have I done so dreadful, that you
should find in me something beyond your endurance ? Or
why should you hide your face and shudder when you see
me ? I am not ugly — I know it ; but if I am so, it is not
my fault, but his."
The listener appeared to hesitate before she gave her
answer. Perhaps she was thinking whether it were possible %
to accede to the prayer addressed to her. Her consideration
did not end favourably for poor Promethia. After a short
pause she broke forth in a stormy, passionate voice — .
* What have you done ? why do I hate you ? you ask. Is
it not enough that you are what you are ? and must not every
human being hate the horror of those features, the gaze of
those unnatural eyes, the hollow mockery of that unmortal
smile ? Is there no hell, or no grave, to hide your wretched
form, and no sea deep enough to wash over your bestial
carcase and hide it from the sight of man for ever? Oh,
would that the God whose majesty and power the impious
man responsible for your existence defied would vindicate
His might, and smite you into the bowels of the earth your
presence contaminates ! Away, I say ; away, once more : get
from out my sight !"
She sprang up, and stretched a hand aloft as if to smite
Promethia, whilst she declaimed thus. Her hair stood up from
her head, her eyes dilated in their sockets, and she rose to her
full height, while the terror as of a great spirit gaining
possession of her seemed to animate her soul and thunder
forth in the fiery words she uttered. Her denunciation was
fearful. I stood amazed. I expected to see the fury of her
opponent rise, and the iron arm of Promethia strike her
lifeless to the ground. But the denouncer seemed not to
heed or fear any action on the part of her rival. It was
simple defiance ; and as I contrasted the two women, the one
2 $2 S/. Janus' s Magazine.
appeared to me like some pure spirit of earth defying a child
of a lower world, — an inferior creation. There was no answering
fire in the eyes which looked widely open at hers ; there was no
resistance apparent in the repose of the head on the statuesque
shoulders or the rigid fixing of the beautiful lips. Promethia
was steeled to all opposition. She bore the terrible denuncia-
tion with perfect calmness, meekly as a gentle dove. She
never even stirred 01 withdrew her hands from her breast,
but waited there, motionless as the statue of a Grecian
god, until the fury of the other had spent itself. Then she
opened her lips slowly :
" Still cruel, — and you will be so to the end. Are you, then,
so very human? Have you the majesty of that Being I
have heard you talk of written on your brow or engraven
in the depth of your iron heart ? Granted I am ugly, vile,
despicable, base, — worthy, as you say, to be trodden under
foot and trampled into the earth like a poor worm, — am I not
entitled to some pity that I was made so ? Had you been
me, consider how you would have liked to be so received.
Did I make you unhappy, did I bribe evil to visit you, did I
drive you forth from your husband's side or make him love
you less, your anger might have some scope, some excuse ;
but all I ask is to live, to breathe, to sit sometimes in your
presence and hear your voice. Even that now is not all to
me, for he," pointing to me, " likes to talk to me ; but you
are a woman, the only one I have ever seen suited for com-
panionship, and to you I looked from the darkness of my
lonely, vacant life for a little sympathy and kindness. Have
I done you any evil that you can point to ? In that book I
read with the name of God in it, there are many command-
ments,— many things we are told to do, — and to have mercy
and kindness is one. But you heed not that teaching; and
you would kill me, but you fear him too much. Have pity,
and let me live near you."
She drew a little towards the other as she made this appeal.
How could a woman resist it ? My whole nature went out to
Promethia and her misery as I listened. The tears stood in
her eyes. I had never seen her weep before, and these were
drops of appeal to the nobleness of another nature, — not an
appeal for gold, or care, or things of earth, but for simple love,
for love and sympathy from one woman to another, — a love
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Promethia. 253
that could hurt none, a loye that all women should ever have
at their command for their unhappy sisters.
I looked at the doctor's wife. " Surely," I thought, " her
grief, her accents of imploring despair, will touch your heart,
and you will throw your arms round her neck as though she
were a sister or a loving and beloved child ! "
But she to whom the appeal was addressed had, it appeared,
either no nobility of character, or some reason for her conduct
which I could not penetrate. The woman repelled Promethia,
and shuddered away from her.
" Have you no feeling, no knowledge, no conception of the
thing you are ? Is there not within you something which tells
you how vile, how base, how worthless is your whole existence
apart from your outward form ? How can I even take the
hand of a monster? Go, go! and would to God that the
flesh would rot away from off your bones even where you
stand!"
Promethia did not break down under this storm.
" You have wished me that before, and you have spoken of
death ; but I only half understand what you mean. I will
remind you of a past. I know that once a little child, a
fair and frail creature, but beautiful as the light of the day,
lay sleeping in these arms, and was not contaminated " — she
extended her arms towards the listener. " I know the child
grew ill, and I watched it and fed it, and tried in vain to bring
back the bloom to its cheeks, the smile to its lips, and the
light to its eyes. I know that I have often taken it forth
in my arms to the river-side, that it might be refreshed
by the sweet air flowing in beneath the moonlight. I
know I saw the lovely child grow thinner and thinner, and
paler and paler, every day, and I strove in vain to make
it eat and regain strength ; and then it could not move,
and something seemed to vanish from forth the delicate
frame, and it lay still here — here, next my heart, and cold,
cold — oh, so cold, and motionless as the stones yonder in the
courtyard. Then fie said, ' It is dead/ and they took the
poor little one away, and laid it somewhere far, far off. I
know they called that death, and they told me I should never
see the little one or hear its pretty gentle voice again; and that
is what you wish for me, is it not ? "
The doctor's wife had been visibly affected by Promethia's
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254 St. James* s Magazine.
words. The mention of the child was the first thing that had
touched her, and when the narrative concluded she almost
broke down into hysterical sobbing.
" My child, my child ! " she cried ; 4i it was my child — my
own little darling. Did she die in your arms ? And yet I
was ill, and could not nurse her. Poor, poor little darling, to
die beneath those terrible eyes ! And for that am I to have
mercy and think kindly of you ? "
" Yes," returned the other ; " it was your flesh and blood —
your child ; and I might have treated it ill. Yes " (and a
wicked fire for the first time broke into her eyes), " I might
have driven its young life out of it, and sent it away from us
earlier than it went ; and I might have made it cry and suffer.
But I tried— oh, so hard, so hard ! — to keep the poor thing here ;
and I thought, ' For my kindness to her little one the mother
will love me/ But you did not. Then you grew worse, and
madness seized you, and you would have slain me if you
could. You said so. You would have hurt me very much,
and I should have lain down like that poor little one, and
been put away — far, far away. Ah ! but now you are better,
have some pity. Think of me as one who is your sister, sad
and sorrowful, but endeavouring to be good and useful and
kind, and let me at least sit down at your feet."
" Sit on a dunghill, or perish, dog-like, in the streets. God
hunt your wretched carcase through the wind and the snow
and the night and the storm ! God place by your side the
wretch who gave up all to see those fearful eyes of yours
shine and those lips open for evil ! God make you his curse
to all eternity ! No, no ; I cannot curse him, for I love him
so. But may the good and merciful Lord of Heaven make
you all and more than the most hated of His creatures.! And
yet is it your fault ? Oh, go. You are a fiend, a demon ; and
the air is poisoned by your breath, and the earth rendered
miserable by your presence upon it."
Promethia stood all this without another tear — without a
sign ; only she folded her hands still more tightly together,
and looked with a beseeching glance at her opponent. She
scarcely seemed to heed the storm of ill words and bitter
curses : she was either above them, or had well learnt the
lesson of passive endurance. But I could not stand by any
longer and hear the woman I loved reviled. I had stood it
Digitized by
Promethia. 255
thus long out of a strange fascination, a want of power to
interrupt the enemies, and a desire to see, as I had hoped from
the beginning, a reconciliation effected ; now I took the
doctor's wife by the arm, and said, sharply and decidedly,
11 You are yourself the brute, cruel woman ! She nursed your
child ; she nursed you. She loves you, and would be satisfied
with a little love, with even a little kind consideration in
return ; and what do you give her but the most horrible im-
precations that were ever uttered, that one woman ever could
heap upon the head of another ? As God is good, you will
answer for this. Repent your cruelty, and make her just a
little happy."
She turned on me with a wild look in her eyes, and a harsh
voice, as she replied,
" What you ask is because you know nothing of her. How
should you ? All I have done, all I would do to her, she more
than deserves. From me, the desire for her life has taken
everything — husband, love, home-life, every joy that I once
knew. Oh, I was once so happy here, and lived a life of
purity and bliss ! My husband loved me truly, and we were
as fond, as affectionate, as ever husband and wife could be.
No thought of difference, no single disagreement, ever inter-
fered with our peace and love ; this house was a home of
perfect contentment. But the shadow came, and day by day
his life diverged from mine. Science and scientific pursuits
he called his occupations at first ; and I encouraged him in
that which would, I thought, give him fame and the renown
he loved and deserved to win. But, in ambition, he forgot
everything. Still that I could have endured without a murmur,
had his ambition been a noble one. Had he laboured in a
legitimate field of inquiry, had he been truly great, I had sub-
mitted. But it was not so. Then she came, $nd all my joy,
my happiness, passed away. For her he lived, for her he put
me on one side. Even you have heard him deny me as his
wife. What — what have I done to deserve this fate ? And I
loved him so much, and at first made him so happy 1 Oh
God ! it is terrible to think of what I have gone through since
1 first saw that horror whom you have flattered to the skies.
My husband loves me no more. She lives between us ; she
does his bidding, and mocks me with the denial of his degraded
passion. She thinks I trust her purity, her simple manner.
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256 St. Janus1 s Magazine.
But ° (and her eyes brightened, while her passion waxed almost
to frenzy) " it shall be no more. You— you, the one man to whom
he has dared to show her, shall know all, and you shall give
me the revenge I yet will have. Away, Promethia, heathen,
fiend, wretch, daughter of hell and evil, child of wickedness
and crime, out of my sight ! May God make me as base as
he if I do not heap on his head and yours the misery of my
blighted life!"
As she spoke thus she grew more and more excited, and
at length stood forth with hands clenching one another and
head raised and thrown back, while her whole frame dilated
with a fearful passion, and the foam of rage and hate gathered
upon her lips. The scene was fearful. The woman, half mad
with the frenzy into which she had worked herself, stood like a
demoniac, like an intending murderess threatening death and
vengeance. Promethia, trembling with sorrow rather than fear
— for she betrayed no terror — and eager to take the least chance
the other would afford her of putting in an explanation, a
word of entreaty, dropped her beautiful head on her breast,
and yet watched the words and the actions of the other with
an anxiety which was not for a moment lost upon me. She
did not defy her enemy ; she simply bent her head and re-
ceived the storm — not unmoved, but with a submissive gentle-
ness which went to my heart, and made me eager to destroy
or silence effectually the woman ,who showered this abuse,
this load of evil upon her innocent head.
I would have pleaded further, but Promethia gave me no
opportunity. She seemed to feel that answer was useless,
and she turned away after a slight pause, and without a word ;
only I saw a tear fall from her eyes on to the floor as she
opened the door of the room and went out, with the usual
quiet, gliding movement so peculiar to her.
I turned to pour forth a torrent of angry expostulation on
the doctor's wife. I admitted it was possible that if the
doctor, being, as she said, her husband, had been living with
this woman in her house as a paramour, there would be strong
justification for her dislike and enmity to Promethia; but
there was not, as far as I could judge, any ground for believing
such to be the real state of things. And even supposing the
one woman to have injured the other to that extent, the crime
did admit of some remorseful penitence; while ^toa^og a
Promethia. 257
woman would hardly have been justified in breaking forth as
the doctor's wife had done. Her cruelty was without excuse,
unless she was indeed mad, which I did not believe.
" Have you," I said to her, " no common humanity, that
you can speak to one of your own sex like this ? Have you
no heart at ail ? "
•'No heart!" she answered me, in quite a subdued and
changed tone. " Little heart have they left me. It has been
broken between them long ago. I would have died when you
first found me, and I wish I had. I will tell you all about
them some time. You do not know what that woman is, or
you would sympathise with me and condemn her as I do."
" You talk so strangely that I am sorely puzzled to under-
stand anything," I said, feeling my head spinning and my
senses getting quite obscure. " Tell me exactly what the
truth between you is."
She looked at me long and steadfastly.
u I swear I will. You shall know all to-night, or at the first
opportunity. I will come for you, and you must be prepared.
Will you face all evil, if necessary ? "
" Mad," I thought to myself again. But, to humour her, I
answered,
"Yes, I will face anything to learn the truth about that
woman."
u Keep silence to the doctor, then, and when the time comes
do not fail me."
She took my hand between hers. They were burning hot.
She pressed it close to her bosom for a moment, and then
raised it to her lips. Then she pushed the straggling hair
back from her brow, and rushed wildly from the room.
Half dazed, I stood looking vacantly at the door, and then
at the chairs and the table. Was the scene I had witnessed
real, or had my residence in a madhouse affected me with the
malady of its inmates ?
CHAPTER XV,
DOWN THE TUNNEL.
The scene I had witnessed between these two women pro-
duced a great effect upon my nerves. I .could^no^jQg^
258 £/. James's Magazine.
the impression by any occupation which it occurred to me to
pursue. I tried books, and writing, and looking at volumes
of portraits and photographic albums, with which the doctor s
library was well supplied — but all in vain ; it was as if an
impending catastrophe hung over the house, and I was to be
drawn into the midst of the evil without the power of resist-
ance. It happened to be a tolerably fine day for the time of
year, though the low state of the glass predicted coming rain
or wind, and in all probability a mixture of both. The season
had not been cold for the month of November — indeed, though
it was getting towards the end of the autumn, or, more pro-
perly speaking, the beginning of winter, no snow had as yet
made its appearance. I should have liked to take a walk ; but
the doctor was not at hand, and I did not think it polite to leave
his premises without letting him know my intentions. The
window of the room in which I was sitting opened into the
garden ; and partly from curiosity, partly from want of some-
thing better to do, I tried to unfasten it and go out. It
seemed as if some considerable time had elapsed since any
one had made a similar attempt, for the lock stuck fast and
the hinges displayed a great unwillingness to be put to their
proper use ; but after one or two unsuccessful efforts I managed
to persuade the right-hand side to open, and I stepped through
it into the garden. Before the window lay a wide gravel walk,
and beside this a bed or border of mould filled with different
shrubs and hardy plants. Behind the shrubbery was a lawn,
and beyond the lawn a sort of kitchen garden planted with rows
of currant and gooseberry bushes, intermixed with cabbages,
asparagus beds, potatoes, parsley, and such like. There were
several straggly ancient-looking apple trees and pear trees;
and in one corner, hidden partially by a weeping ash, a sort
of garden house for the use of the keeper of the place. He
was not certainly much of a keeper, for everything seemed to
follow the inclination of all nature's products for running wild.
It was evident the place was occasionally attended to ; but
that such times were few and far between, and just at present
the garden looked in the very reverse of a well-kept state.
Feeling disposed to stretch my legs when once I inhaled the
fresh air of the morning, I passed out of the window and
strolled round the domain. It was not very large, for the
house occupied a considerable portion of it, and to all appear -
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
Promethia. 259
ance had from time to time been extended, to the detriment
of the garden and the sacrifice of many trees. There had,
doubtless, once been a fine row or avenue of elms along the
side of the house. A few of them still reared majestic heads
to heaven, and in the tops a family of rooks had built their
nests, and woke the echoes of the neighbourhood with their
discordant music. The front of the house was dreary-looking,
and did not improve upon a closer acquaintance ; so I kept in
the rearward garden and walked several times round it, before,
inspired by curiosity, I resolved to try and find the trap or
hole down which I had met with the accident.
I recollected that it was situated somewhere near the back
door ; and after going backwards and forwards several times
along the entire length of the building, I made up my mind
which the back door in question was — a thing by no means
easy, as there were no less than four back doors, and all pretty
much alike. The kitchen windows which looked out this
way appeared to have been left uncleaned for weeks and
weeks, and I did not see one person in any of the rooms as I
passed along.
Having come to the conclusion that the door I was seeking
lay before me, I began to examine the ground in the neigh-
bourhood with great care, in the hope of finding the trap or
hole of which I was in search ; but it was not to be found.
The walk along the front of the windows was gravel, and the
wail of the house rose immediately from it. There was no
area or basement at the back of the house, but the kitchen
and other rooms were on the level of the garden ground. The
gravel bordered a grass-plot, but I seemed to have a dis-
tinct recollection that in following the woman towards the
house my feet had been on gravel, and not on any soft sub-
stance. What could have become of the place ? There was
not even a stone slab in sight which might have concealed the
pitfall. I was beginning to think I must be mistaken in the
locality, when I discovered a very slight difference in the
elevation of a piece of turf at the edge of the gravel walk.
It would have escaped the. notice of any one unless they
happened to be employed upon finding out the least irregu-
larity in the garden border. I discovered it myself more by
chance than design ; and had I not been seeking for the place
of the trap, I should,. I am sure, have taken not the least notice
260 Si. Jameis Magazine.
of its existence. As it was, however, I examined the spot
cautiously, and found that the turf had been but recently laid
down over a large space which had probably been gravelled
before. My curiosity prevailed over my good breeding, for I
really had no right to pull the doctor's garden about ; but
putting right on one side, I went to the tool-house or shed and
got thence a spade and a hoe. Thus armed, I removed the
turf from the spot with the greatest care, and discovered a
large slab of iron covering about three square feet and lying
down as if it had never been moved for ages. The metal was
rusted, the earth pressed into the crack of the opening, and
the hinges lay together as if years had elapsed since their
services had been called into requisition. Still I did not
doubt that this effect was supposititious, and that the place
was none other than the one in which I had fallen. Probably
it had been left open by accident on that day, and yet I h^ul
no recollection of seeing an iron door or anything of the kind.
In all likelihood I had been in such a wild state of excitement
when pursuing the excited woman, that I had observed
nothing of the surroundings of the hole into which fate had
precipitated me. Now that I had found the entrance to some
unknown region — as likely as not a drain or a cesspool, though
my imagination pictured it the haunt of a demon — I might as
well open it and see if there was anything remarkable about
the interior. The lid was closely shut, and there was no key-
hole, but a little bulb in the iron where the keyhole should
have been, and I concluded the door opened with a spring.
I stooped down to the bulging spot, and pressed it with
eager fingers. I was not disappointed : the spring started back,
and by means of a little knob in the iron door I raised it and
peered down. Beneath the lid lay a dismal-looking hole.
It was very dark, and had no visible end or bottom ; to the
right there seemed to be a sort of step-ladder of iron rings,
such as one sees in the manhole of a sewer, and at the side
of this a railing for the hand of a person descending. I gazed
earnestly into the depths, and wondered whether this hole
contained any treasure, or was merely a drain or something
of the kind. What impulse moved me to descend I cannot
tell, but while I was looking down there an irresistible feeling
got the upper hand, and as if I was pushed on by somebody
who would be obeyed, I found myself putting one foot and
Protnethia. 261
then the other down the hole, and descending gradually by
the ring-ladder into the depths of the earth.
I had no time to think about the propriety of exploring a
place belonging to somebody else, or the danger of venturing
into unknown regions, for the moment I was fairly launched
on the enterprise I had all my senses engaged in finding my
way down. It was a perilous descent, and I had no concep-
tion where the steps would lead to. They were set pretty
regularly in the side, and seemed to wind a little as it were
round a circular shaft. They were tolerably firm, and with a
little caution in the placing of my feet I managed to proceed
without danger, clinging to the handrail as I went along.
I had descended in this way about six or seven feet, and the
ground was some way above my head, when I turned to look
if there was any indication of my destination. As I did so I
fancied I saw a gleam of light coming up apparently from the
earth beneath me, but a long way below. However, if there
was light there must be some exit, and in all probability a way
leading into the cellarage of the house. It was an adventure
and nothing more. My ennui was finding relief in the house
of the doctor. I might as well go on and see if I came upon
anything exciting. After a few more steps my foot struck
the ground, and I alighted from the ladder and tried to see
around me.
I was standing at the bottom of a long hole or shaft, and
the light of day streamed down from the doorway with great
illuminating power. The hard surface at my feet seemed to
light up the top and the sides far more brilliantly than otherwise
would have been the case. The sides were apparently of
cement, and were coloured dark for the purpose of enabling
the light to get down and illuminate the bottom. To my
right was the ladder I had just descended, and on my left I
discovered an orifice about the size of a man's head. The
portion, however, of the hole that I saw was but one half, for
passing my hand through the place I pulled open a door
and found myself at the entrance of a long passage par-
tially lighted by the rays of light shining up it from a great
distance off. Was it worth while following the light until
I came to the end of the passage, and found what it led to ?
Certainly I would do so. Having resolved to go forward, all
my natural spirit returned to me. I was in pursuit of an
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262 S/. yanus*s Magazine.
adventure. If I came upon water, or traps, or dangers of any
kind, I cared not ; if I found myself in the midst of some fearful
den of horrors, I should rather rejoice. My illness, my weak-
ness, was at an end, and I was once more the man to whom all
things were subservient. Tightening my coat around me, to
prevent it being soiled by mud or dirt more than was abso-
lutely necessary, I turned from the ladder and advanced with
cautious but resolute footsteps along the passage in the direc-
tion of the light. Tunnels with open places at the end are
always deceptive: the light ever seems to grow nearer and
nearer, but as you approach it wanders off like a will-o'-the-
wisp ; and this was now the case with the tunnel I was ex-
ploring, for though when I first set out I thought I should
arrive at the end of the place in a minute or two, I found after
walking for some time the light was still ahead of me, and
only became brighter by very slow degrees. Still I was
making way towards it, and having once resolved to get to
the end of the tunnel I was too resolute to think of turning back
because the distance proved greater than I had anticipated.
The tunnel was warm, but rather damp ; and a clammy feeling
hung about the air I breathed. The walls and ceiling were
as far as I could judge cemented, and the floor at first pre-
sented an even and hard surface to the tread. As I neared
the light, however, I perceived a considerable alteration in the
latter, which seemed mossy or sticky, and more and more damp
to the footstep. It seemed as if the place had been recently
saturated with moisture in considerable quantity. I was not,
therefore, very much surprised when, on emerging from this
subterranean tunnel, I found myself on the marge of the river,
with the wide rolling stream a little way beneath my feet
and a great mud bank lying between me and the water.
This then was a communication between the doctor's
grounds and the Thames. But what was it used for ? It
could not be a drain, for there was no sign of pipe or soil or
anything of the kind. However, it might have been built for
one, and the works left unfinished ; certainly, to judge by the
appearance of the surrounding timbers which secured the
sides and the orifice itself, it had not been built very long,
but it had taken the place of the mouth of a much older
channel which belonged to some works in the neighbourhood.
I could see the direction from which their tunnel came j and
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Promcthia. 26$
by the side of the doctors subterranean there flowed out a
dark stream of water which had evidently been used in some
manufacturing process. Well, having satisfied my curiosity,
the best thing I could do was to return to the garden the
same way as I had left it; and I saw no reason to conceal from
the doctor the fact that I had explored his domain and been
to look at the Thames from the water-side. It was indeed a
sight worth looking at this fine winter morning. The river
was very full, though the tide was three-parts ebbed, and the
water running down the channel like a mill-stream. The
banks near were lined with black works, and, save a little way
up on the right hand side, were occupied by wharves and coal
and stone and slate barges lying on the bank of the river, and
in some instances these were the centres of the activity of
many lightermen ; but they none of them observed me, and I
did not care to wade through the thick mud for the purpose
of making them aware of my presence, especially as I did not
particularly want them to see me. On the other side of the
river stretched a long dark line of buildings, fronted by ships
and boats; and behind them the pale sky, with a winter gleam
of sunlight in it, hanging like a mantle overhead. I could have
remained watching the river for some time. One or two
barges and a Citizen steamboat swept down the tide while I
was there, and the brightness of the air seemed to make them
happy as they passed. But I did not want the doctor to miss
me ; moreover, somebody might chance to pass in the garden
and shut the door, and then how was I to get back again ?
So I left the river to take care of itself, and was about to
enter the tunnel and make my way back, when my eye
chanced to fall on a little nook or cavity cut cavelike into the
side of the tunnel, a short distance from the opening. No one
but a most careful observer would have paid any attention to
the hole, and I myself should not have done so but for the fact
of seeing a great rat scamper into the cavity in a terrible
hurry ; I turned my head in the direction, and, as I entered the
tunnel once more, struck a light and passed it up to the right
side, where this orifice was, to examine the place. Judge of
my horror on finding in it a human head, with the flesh half
consumed from the bones, lying on the floor, and embedded
in the mud save where the rats had been scraping away the
soil and exposing the remains ! I stood aghast, and the light
Digitized by VjOOQIC
264 St. James* s Magazine.
flickered on the strange relic and went out suddenly. I lit
another match and looked carefully round the hole for any
other remains, but I saw nothing else.
" What," I asked myself, " is the explanation of this ? "
Had I discovered the head of a murdered man, or was this
the side of some burial-ground ? The latter supposition was
untenable. Surely I had discovered a murder. This head was
not there accidentally. I turned it over, and saw to my
surprise that it had been severed from the body with the
greatest care. There was no mark of clumsiness or butchery.
The features were quite gone, and the hair alone remained in
the original state, — indicating by its length that the skull had
belonged to a woman. I paused before the thing, and con-
sidered what I ought to do. The passage belonged to the
doctor, without a doubt. Neither could there be much hesita-
tion in arriving at the conclusion that the hole had been open
when I had arrived on the premises, and that he had had it
closed and covered with turf since then, for some very good
reason of his own. A mere desire to prevent anybody else
from tumbling down the hole would not have made a man
take so much trouble to conceal the existence of the subter-
ranean way to the river. Was this passage used, then, for evil
purposes — for the removal of the body of a victim ? I should
have been ashamed to entertain such suspicions of a man who
had been so kind to me under any other circumstances ; but
here I was with this ghastly thing before me speaking of
murder, or at least suggesting the idea to my mind. What was
to be done with it ? If murder had been committed it was my
duty to communicate with the police. If accident had brought
the head here, at least common reverence for the dead required
that the poor thing should if possible be united to the body
and buried, where it might return in peace to its native earth.
I would go to the doctor and ask him at once to assist me
in communicating with the proper authorities ; and if I went
to him boldly, saying what I had found, and charging him
with a knowledge of the thing being there, I should readily
see whether or not my suspicions had any ground to rest upon.
With this resolve I pushed the head further back into the
hole, placed a piece of wood, which I found hard by, in front
of it, and then began to retrace my steps to the garden.
( To be continued. )
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Our Modern Poets.
No. VII.— Ctjarlesf iu'ngale? anb acrfiuc *?♦ Ctotifff)*
By S. R. TOWNSHEND MAYER,
AUTHOR OF "FROM THE FAR NORTH," ETC., ETC.
JT is not amongst the works of living poets only
that we frequently find gems of the purest
poetical lustre unnoticed and unappreciated. We
live so fast in these times — "each revolving
moon " sees the rise (and, but too often, the setting) of so
many stars on the horizon of literature ; every day brings so
much that is valuable before the public, that unless a writer
possesses stupendous merit, or hits on a subject of wide
popularity, the chances are that his early death will be the
death also of his books — so far as extensive circulation is
concerned. " The living, the living, they shall praise Thee/'
says the Psalmist. And " the living, the living, they shall be
praised/' is too often the shout of the vox popitli. Frequent
iteration — the piling of book upon book, poem upon poem —
the power, once having seized public attention, of never
letting it slip nor turn for more than a brief interval to other
channels, is the gift of all others most necessary to success. The
public will not wait ; it clamours for " some new thing '* as
pertinaciously as the Athenians of old. And the poet whos j
voice after but few and intermittent strains is silent in the
grave, no matter how sweet or strong those strains may have
been, stands small chance of obtaining attention among living
competitors.
The poems of Charles Kingsley* and of Arthur H. Clough I
* Poetns: including The Saint's Tragedy, Andromeda, Songs, Ballads,
etc. By Charles Kingsley. Collected edit. London : Macmillan & Co.
1875.
t* Poems by Arthur Hugh Clough. With a Memoir. Fourth edi:.
London : Macmillan & Co. 1874.
VOL.1. 19
266 S/. femes' s Magazine.
are remarkable instances of this unmerited neglect, and are in
other respects so well contrasted that we will take them as
our present examples. Of course in the former case there
was another potent reason for the oversight : Kingsley s novels
so eclipsed his poems in public favour, that perhaps only
about five per cent, of his admirers as a novelist even remem-
ber that he was a poet So much the more need, therefore, of
a brtef reminder of what we lose by allowing " The Saint's
Tragedy " to lie unopened on our bookshelves.
The writings of Kingsley and Clough may be called the
poetry of faith and the poetry of doubt — doubt which not
only questions the rooted convictions of other people, but its
own uncertainty ; and therefore often hovers on the verge of
belief. Into the theological aspect of this contrast it is only
our province to enter so far as it affected the style and sub-
stance of the writings themselves ; enabling Kingsley to see
even in plague and pestilence the direct and merciful hand of
the Creator, in whose name he cries : —
" Listen ! Christmas carols even here.
Though thou be dumb, yet o'er their work the stars and snows are
singing.
Blind ! I live, I love, I reign ; and all the nations through
With the thunder of my judgments even now are ringing.
Do thou fulfil thy work, but as yon wild fowl do, —
Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels singing !r
When we speak of C lough's scepticism, it must be under-
stood that scepticism as to creeds, not as to religion, is meant.
For Clough had pre-eminently what Mrs. Browning says all
poets must possess — " a religious passion in his soul." If his
mind questioned, his heart believed : and the utterances of
these diverse voices are finely contrasted in the two sections
of his poem " Easter Day," from each of which we take an
example : —
" Eat, drink, and die, for we are souls bereaved ;
Of all the creatures under heaven's wide cope
We are most hopeless, who had once most hope,
And most beliefless that had most believed.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ;
As of the unjust, also of the just —
Yea, of that Just One too !
It is the one sad Gospel that is true —
Christ is not risen ! "
******
Digitized by VjOOQIC
f
Our Modern Pods. 267
Then comes the answer —
" So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone,
I with my secret self held communing of mine own.
So in the southern city spake the^Onrter !^r**
Of one that somewhat over wildly >ung. w ^ >V>^
But in a later hour I sat and heard < ^\> //\
Another voice that spake— another Wa$er woTftft^ "A
Weep not, it bade, whatever hath been stiijL^
Though He be dead He is not dead. ^ >. Y -». ^ . "
In the true creed He is yet risen indeed ;^^ ts^ s
Christ is yet risen.,,
To Kingsley life was no intricate and wearisome problem.
His solution was prompt and practical as the motto Fiat
justitia, mat ccelutn. Do your duty, and heaven itself — the
veritable kingdom of God — is within you. " Do noble things,"
he says, —
" Do ndble things, not dream them,* all day long,
And so make life, death, and that vast for ever
One grand sweet song."
To Clough not only was life a problem, but duty also. A
•conscience more than ordinarily sensitive, delicate and acute
mental perceptions, a brain too subtle for its own peace, are
legible in all C lough's writings, and remind one of Tennyson's
early poem, " Supposed Reflections of a Super-sensitive Mind
not in Unison with Itself." But these highly wrought faculties
Jiave at all events "the merits of their defects'' : sympathy
with a wide range of feelings and characters, refined humour,
and quiet pathos. The innumerable apparent contradictions
of destiny, the tyrannies of daily life, pressed home to him
so closely as to tinge his poems deeply with melancholy
when he wrote from within, as in " The Questioning Spirit,"
u Whence are ye, Vague Desires ? " or the wonderful dialogue
" Dipsychus," in which a man's better nature, graver thoughts,
and higher aspirations are constantly being combated by the
evil spirit of mockery and doubt within him — in short, a con-
flict between Faust and Mephistopheles in one person. On
the other hand, when he writes from without, as in "The"
Bothieof Tober-na-Vuolich, a Long Vacation Pastoral/ though
some of the dramatis persona reflect the author's own intro-
spective mood, there are also shrewd observation and some-
what more akin to comedy than anything to be found in
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268 S£ James's Magazine.
Kingsley's sturdier and on the whole more cheerful strains —
for the only characters in Kingsley's poems which have evert
an attempt at humour — Count Walter, and the Fool — though
quaint certainly, are more bitter than merry.
All that Charles Kingsley cared to collect of his own
poems are comprised in one moderate-sized volume ; but it
would be difficult to find in a good-sized library of modern
poetry such overwhelming pathos, such fervid utterance of
the soul's deepest and most intense emotion, as glow like a
thread of fire in " The Saint's Tragedy " and " St. Maura.*
Kingsley threw himself into the very heart of the reli-
gious enthusiasm of the Middle Ages, and portrayed with
startling force and clearness its effects on different orders
of mind. Nowhere in modern English poetry is there a more
exquisite picture than Elizabeth of Hungary, princess, wife,
and saint — tortured by her creed (as interpreted by a fanatic)
into dreading and denying the purest and strongest impulses
of her loving heart ; torn and at last crazed by the supposed
conflict between earthly and heavenly love ; wrenched from
friends, home, husband, and children, the very fibres of her
heart, by a Manichean ascetic — yet in her utmost woe pious,
gentle, and but too submissive. Nowhere in modern English
poetry is there a more powerful figure than Conrad — stern,
unsparing both to himself and others, yet pitying the tortures
of the flesh even when he slays it for the supposed exaltation
of the spirit; willing to see Elizabeth the woman perish
miserably in order that Elizabeth the saint may rise to
heaven, but as willing to endure martyrdom as to inflict it.
Lewis, Landgrave of Thuringia, Elizabeth's husband, a type
of the higher grade of knighthood in the Middle Ages— the
knighthood which fights "for God and the ladies," which
embraces deeds of charity in its code as well as deeds of
arms, and sees its true vocation in the Holy Wars ; full of
good and high impulses, but weak, unstable, the slave of a
stronger mind — is finely drawn. Indications of the exquisite
happiness two such characters as he and Elizabeth might
have enjoyed, the beneficent life they might have led to-
gether free from the intervention of priestly despotism,
which comes between them in every moment of daily life,
and ultimately parts them for ever, only heighten the actual
tragedy.
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Our Modern Poets. 26g
Here is Lewis's speech on receiving Elizabeth's consent to
their espousals : —
" Henceforth let no man, peering down
Through the dim glittering mine of future years,
Say to himself, ' Too much ! This cannot be ! '
To-day, and custom, wall up our horizon :
Before the hourly miracle of life
Blindfold we stand, and sigh as God were not.
1 have wandered in the mountains, mist-bewildered, —
And now a breeze comes, and the veil is lifted,
And priceless flowers o'er which I trod unheeding
Gleam ready for my grasp. She loves me, then !
She who to me was as a nightingale
That sings in magic gardens, rock-beleagured,
To passing angels melancholy music —
Whose dark eyes hung, like far-off evening stars
Through rosy-curtained windows coldly shining
Down from the cloud-world of her unknown fame —
She for whom holiest touch of holiest knight
Seemed all too gross — who might have been a saint,
And companied with angels."
On the eve of Lewis's departure for the Crusades, of which
-as yet she knows nothing, Elizabeth thus describes her bliss : —
" Lewis, I am too happy ! floating higher
Than e'er my will had dared to soar, though able ;
But circumstance, which is the will of God,
Beguiled my cowardice to that which, darling,
I found most natural when I feared it most.
Love would have had no strangeness in mine eyes
Save for the prejudice which others taught me —
They should know best. Yet now this wedlock seems
A second infancy's baptismal robe —
A heaven, my spirit's ante-natal home,
Lost in blind pining girlhood, — found now, found ! "
She begs her husband's purse for the poor, and opening it,
exclaims, —
" Ah God ! What's here ? A new crusader's cross ?
Whose ? Nay, nay, turn not from me — I guess all.
You need not tell me — it is very well —
According to the meed of my deserts :
Yes ; very well.
Lewis. Ah, love, look not so calm —
Eliz. Fear not — I shall weep soon.
How long is it since you vowed ?
Lewis. A week or more.
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Eliz. Brave heart ! and all that time your tenderness
Kept silence, knowing my weak foolish souL
Oh love ! oh life ! Late found, and soon, soon lost;
A bleak sunrise, a treacherous morning gleam,
And now, e'er midday, all my sky is black
With whirling drifts once more ! "
Lewis is killed in the Holy War, and Guta, one of Elizabeth's-
attendants, describes her reception of the tidings. The metre
is a curious and not very happy experiment, though there is
a certain hurrying force about the accumulation of syllables: —
" You saw her bound forth : we towards her bower in haste
Ran trembling : spell-bound there before her bridal bed
She stood, while wan smiles flickered, like the northern dawn,
Across her worn cheeks' ice-field ; keenest memories then
Rushed with strong shudderings through her — as the winged
shaft
Springs from the tense nerve, so her passion hurled her forth,.
Sweeping, like fierce ghost, on through hall and corridor
Tearless, with wide eyes staring, while a ghastly wind
Moaned on through roof and rafter, and the empty helms
Along the wall rang clattering, and above her waved
Dead heroes' banners, swift and yet more swift she drove
Still seeking aimless. Then against the opposing wall
At last dashed reckless — then with frantic fingers clutched!
Blindly the ribbed oak, till that frost of rage
Dissolved itself in tears, and like a babe
With inarticulate moans and folded hands
She followed those who led her, as if the sun
Of her life's dial had gone back seven years,
And she were once again the dumb sad child
We knew her ere she married."
Her husband's mother and the new Landgrave thrust Eliza-
beth and her children from the palace penniless, and attended
by only two faithful women. The monks she had enriched and
the poor she had tended refuse her shelter and insult her fallen
fortunes. When at last she finds a refuge with her uncle at
Bamburg, Conrad drives her mad by insisting on her giving
up the children ; and the fourth act describes the excessive
privations he enforces on the weak body and shattered mind
in order to complete her claim to saintship, till even he
almost doubts the lawfulness of his own cruelty, and exclaims
after listening to Elizabeth's wanderings, —
" There ! she is laid again. Some bedlam dream.
So — here I sit. Am I a guardian angel ^
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Watching by God's elect ? or nightly tiger,
Who waits upon a dainty point of honour
To clutch his prey till it shall wake and move ?
Well waive that question. There's eternity
To answer that in.
How like a marble-carven nun she lies,
Who prays with folded palms upon her tomb,
Until the resurrection ! Fair and holy ! "
After Elizabeth's death and canonization, the tragedy ends
with the slaughter of Conrad, at the instigation of a heretic
preacher, by certain peasants over whom he has tyrannized ;
and so closes the most perfect picture of the lights and shadows
of mediaeval priestcraft preserved for us by any poet. Kingsley's
authorities for facts and incidents are freely cited and acknow-
ledged in the Introduction and Notes. But however largely
he may have been indebted to monkish chronicles for the
outlines of the story, he alone could have given its dry bones
such intense vitality, and united to the keenest sympathy for
the victims of a relentless system such out-spoken respect
for all it possessed of elevation and holiness. There are some
charming lyrics interspersed.
"Andromeda" is well known as one of the most successful
essays in a metre which no genius will ever thoroughly assimi-
late with or render popular in our language, though some lines
in this poem have a richness and dignity unattainable, perhaps,
in any other measure, such as those describing the oceades and
mermen approaching the doomed maiden : —
" Onward they came in their joy, and before them the roll of the surges
Sank, as the breeze sank dead, into smooth green foam-flecked marble,
Awed. And the crags of the cliff and the pines of the mountain were
silent
Onward they came in their joy, and around them the lamps of the sea-
nymphs ;
Myriad fiery globes swam panting and heaving, and rainbows
Crimson and azure and emerald were broken in star showers, lighting
Far through the wine-dark depths of the crystal, the gardens of Nereus,
Coral and sea-fang and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean.
Onward they came in their joy, more white than the foam which they
scattered,
Laughing and singing and tossing and twining, while eager the Tritons
Blinded with kisses their eyes unreproved, and above them in worship
Hovered the terns, and the seagulls swept past them on silvery
pinions."
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" Saint Maura, A.D. 304," is the story, told in monologue,
of a martyr crucified by her husband's side : a subject too
painful for less firm and delicate handling, but told here with
marvellous knowledge of a woman's heart The short poems
which follow have, in the majority, become so familiar to the
public in Kingsley's novels, and by setting to music, that it
seems almost superfluous to mention them here. " The Sands
of Dee " and " The Three Fishers," with their resonant and
somewhat Shaksperian refrains, known to us all, are yet ever
new and welcome. The " Ode to the North-East Wind " will
always be read with a glow of heart and cheek, verily " bracing
brain and sinew," as being itself like a gust of that
" Jovial wind of winter ! n
The wistful upward Inquiry, the tender melancholy, the quiet
piety which breathes from out such lyrics as " The Watchman,"
"The World's Age," "A Christmas Carol," and "The Dead
Church," alone furnish sufficient reply to those who regard
their author as a neologian, and as "unsound in the faith " —
because, forsooth, he looked upon the laws of nature as expres-
sions of the will of God, and its beauty as a reflex of Him from
whom it emanates ; because he accepted scientific truths as the
new Revelation ; and because he did not preach stereotyped
orthodoxy. His hatred of cant was as deep, sincere, and
vigorously expressed as that of Carlyle, Burns, or Thomas
Hood ; and in these days of expediency, lukewarmness, and
insincerity, it is refreshing to read his outburst of righteous
indignation on the narrow-minded bigotry which brought
about the "Death of a Certain Journal"; so, again, as a
terrible indictment against our game laws, will be read the
ballad of " The Bad Squire." Among the later " Miscellaneous
Poems" are "Easter Week" and "Christmas Day (1868),"
embodying the very essence of Christianity in its divinity and
charity ; nor less striking, at this time of highly-wrought war-
feeling, are the four stanzas headed " September 21st, 1870,"
— composed, we should imagine, in the rectory garden at
Eversley : —
" Speak low, speak little : who may sing
While yonder cannon-thunders boom ?
Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring :
Nor ' pipe amid the crack of doom.'
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And yet — the pines sing overhead,
The robins by the alder pool,
The bees about the garden bed,
The children dancing home from school.
And ever at the loom of Birth
The Mighty Mother weaves and sings :
She weaves — fresh robes for mangled earth ;
She sings — fresh hope for desperate things. ,
And thou, too : if through Nature's calm
Some strain of music touch thine ears,
Accept and share that soothing balm,
And sing, though choked with pitying tears."
In the whole of Clough's poems there is not one with the
strong human interest of " The Saint's Tragedy " or " Saint
Maura." Even when he tells a story, as in "Amours de
Voyage," where the hero lets his love slip from his grasp
simply for want of a few inquiries, a little exertion, a word
spoken, — and writes with sardonic composure to his confidant,
i: Do nothing more, good Eustace, I pray you. It only will vex me.
Take no measures. Indeed, should we meet I could not be certain.
All might be changed, you know. Or perhaps there was nothing to be
changed.
♦ ♦ * ♦ •
Great is Fate, and is best. I believe in Providence partly.
What is ordained is right, and all that happens is ordered.
Ah no ! that isn't it. But yet I retain my conclusion.
I will go where I am led, and will not dictate to the chances.
Do nothing more, I beg. If you love me, forbear interfering," —
or in "The Lawyer's First Tale," where the hero describes
himself as
" So willing that I know not what I will
O for some friend, or more than friend, austere,
To make me know myself, and make me fear !
O for some touch, too noble to be kind,
To awake to life the mind within the mind ! " —
Clough records meditations rather than events, and elabo-
rates feelings rather than characters; but so vividly, and
with such a keen perception of shades and intricacies of
thought, that his closest analysis does not become tiresome.
A few stanzas from a Venetian song in "Dipsychus" give
a good example of the polished ease of Clough's lighter and
unore graceful style : —
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'" How light we go, how soft we skim,
And all in moonlight seem to swim I
The south side rises o'er our bark
A wall impenetrably dark
The north is seen profusely bright ;
The water— is it shade or light?
Say, gentle moon, which conquers now
The flood— those many hulls, or thou ?
(How light we go ! How softly ! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola !)
" With no more motion than should bear
A freshness to the languid air ;
With no more effort than exprest
The need and naturalness of rest,
Which we beneath a grateful shade
Should take on peaceful pillows laid.
(How light we move, how softly ! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola !)*
During Clough's voyage across the Atlantic, and his sojourn*
in America, he wrote his well-known and charming " Songs in
Absence," which under the garb of simplicity are full of tender
meaning and affectionate longing. Of their kind they are
perhaps the best we have ; certainly they are the most popular
of his poems, because their language in crystalline clearness
gives expression to feelings common to us all. What, for
instance, can be more vividly personal, or simply realistic,,
than the first song beginning, —
" Farewell, farewell ! Her vans the vessel tries,
His iron might the potent engine plies ;
Haste, winged words, and ere 'tis useless, tell,—
Farewell, farewell, yet once again farewell !
" The docks, the streets, the houses past us fly ;
Without a strain the great ship marches by :
Ye fleeting banks take up the words we tell,
And say for us, yet once again — farewell."
What can be more truthful or delightful than the second,
song,—
" Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er
Across this watery waste we fare,
Your image at our hearts we bear,
Green fields of England, everywhere. •
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Sweet eyes in England, I must flee
Past where the wharves' last confines be,
Ere your loved smile I cease to see,
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me.
Dear home in England, safe and fast
If but in thee my lot be cast,
The past shall seem a nothing past
•To thee, dear home, if won at last ;
Dear home in England, won at last/'
Nor less true is the gradual deepening of feeling, as time
progresses and knowledge widens, shown in the later songs.
It is with great regret that we find our space will not permit
us to quote as we desire the last song of the series, the first
stanza of which runs —
" That out of sight is out of mind
Is true of most we leave behind ;
It is not, sure, nor can be true,
My own and only love, of you."
A great deal of attention was called, on the first appearance
of Clough's poems, to their tone of questioning and hesitation,
especially as to codes and creeds, which we have already
pointed out, and to the melancholy and unsatisfactory nature
of the conclusions to which they seemed to lead. It is only
fair, therefore, to add that if Clough was anxious to " prove
all things/' he was equally ready to " hold fast that which is.
good." Few religious poems exceed the following in beauty
and earnestness : —
"QUI LABORAT, ORAT.
" 0 only Source of all our light and life,
Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel ;
But whom the hours of mortal, moral strife,
Alone aright reveal I
" Mine inmost soul before Thee inly brought,
Thy presence owns, ineffable, Divine ;
Chastised each rebel self-encentred thought,
My will adoreth Thine.
" With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind
Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart,
Nor seek to see, for what of earthly kind
Can see Thee as Thou art ?
4.
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" O not unowned, Thou shalt unnamed forgive,
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ;
And if in work its life it seem to live,
Shalt make that work be prayer.
" Nor times shall lack when while the work it plies,
Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part,
And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes
In recognition start
" But as Thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear
The beatific supersensual sight ;
So, with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer
Approach Thee day and night."
In these days when poets are reproaching each other with
a sin by which the moral effect of literature is nullified — an
♦exclusive devotion to material beauty, that exalts sense
•above soul — it is a mental tonic to turn to such poems as
those of Charles Kingsleyand Arthur Clough, which, strongly
contrasted as they are in many respects, have at all events
two high characteristics in common — purity and aspiration.
Contrasted as they likewise are in the fact that Kingsley's
may be regarded as poems of Faith and Nature, and Clough's
as poems of Hope and Sentience, they nevertheless are evi-
dently of one and the same "school," both bearing traces of
the Laureate's influence as to form, especially in their shorter
.lyrics.
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" Ah, such a noo\ I knaw, where I
Have lain in blissful ease.'
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I
Venite.
By ROGER QUIDDAM.
MEN who live in crowded streets,
'Mid smoke and wild turmoil,
Where Mammon chains ye to your seats
In rounds of ceaseless toil,
Come out and tread the flow'ry meads
Where fleecy lambkins skip ;
Where drops of dew, like golden beads,
The bending herbage tip :
Come forth and see the dappled deer
Roam through the forest glades,
Or peep and bound with pretty fear
Amidthe vernal shades :
Come tread with me the green hill-side
And watch the shadows fall,
Or hear the bells at eventide
To vesper service call :
•Or — best of all — come gently glide
Upon yon silver stream,
And see the silent-flowing tide
In rippling splendour gleam.
That tide shall bear us far away
To some undreame J-of nook,
Where we may read, the livelong day,
From Nature's open book.
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Ah, such a nook I know, where I
Have lain in blissful ease,
And idly watched the stream flew by
Beneath the lofty trees :
Or inland turned my dreamy gaze
Upon the peaceful scene, —
The rustic towV, the flocks that graze
The verdant hill between :
Where I have heard the wild bees' hum,
The linnet's slender note,
The deep and luscious warble come
From mavis* speckled throat :
Where through the long sweet day of Spring
I lived another life,
And felt no more the venomed sting
Of mans unceasing strife.
O waters ! bear us far away
To such a nook of rest,
Where we may lie the livelong day,
And dream, upon your breast.
O bear us from the crowded streets —
Their smoke and wild turmoil,
Away to Nature s calm retreats
To rest us from our toil.
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Bethune.
By JACOB SCOTT. 9
V
CHAPTER I.
^ETHUNE MAY'S hazel eyes, variable with light
and shade, expectancy and hesitation, are stead-
fastly regarding the doorway. There is just
enough of heightened colour in her face to suggest
curiosity, and just enough of repose about her to hint at a
possible reserved demeanour. She gives one glance at her
aunt's visitor as he enters, and then sits forward at the edge
of her chair and contemplates the point of her shoe, waiting
for the introduction to begin.
"There is Bethune May, — my niece." Bethune looks up,
Mr. Flint bows — a little absently, perhaps — to the fire. He
might have looked half a yard further, towards the bright
animated young face opposite, and marked the latent sparkle
in the eyes that were watching and noting his appearance.
"Ugly, of course, like the heroes of most of my favourite
novels ; but then, he is not tall, and he stoops, as if he were
always bending over an imaginary pulpit-desk."
" Beth, dear, ring, and we will have the gas turned on."
" I allow me." Bethune leans back in her chair, catches
a significant look from Aunt Sophia's attentive eyes, and sits
bolt upright, and tries to think of something to say that won't
sound like an effort of speech. He comes to her rescue.
"Your aunt, Miss Tozer, and I always find so much to talk
about I know I may always say what is in my mind to her
You will make some stay here ? " he asks, abruptly.
" Yes, a month at least. Aunt Sophia and I have arranged
many little plans together." His eyes grow a shade less keen
and bright, Bethune fancies.
Robert Flint's voice is apt to betray itself into harshness at
VOL. I. 3'tlZ20
28o 5/. Jamefs Magazine.
times ; and so well aware of it is he that he rarely forgets to
take care and modulate it. He is impulsive, too, with a boy's
impulsiveness that overrides all acquired mannerism, or a
judicious preliminary to any argument or statement ; but he
seems to modulate neither of these two characteristics now,
as he addresses her aunt.
" Miss Tozer, your niece has the elements of a republican."
"How?"
" She is upsetting pur cabinet councils, and is introducing
many little plans in their place."
" Can't we take Mr. Flint into them ?" inquires'Aunt Sophia,
not without a misgiving that she will probably be read a small
expostulatory lecture after his departure.
"If you like, Aunt Sophia," Bethune returns, with such
quiet indifference that Mr. Flint turns and looks at her oddly,
and tries again.
" Shall I see you with your aunt to-morrow ? "
"In church?"
"Yes."
" In the evening we are coming, I believe : we are going for
a walk to see auntie's old home in the morning. I like church
in the evening best, and I don't like to go twice a day."
He regards her with another curious look, more intent than
the former one. Is she wayward, spoilt/or disposed to dislike
him ? She is too pretty not to make him feel that she hurts
him somehow, somewhere.
" Why," he says with the shadow of a vexed air, "why don't
you care to go twice a day ? "
" Because I am always wishing to be outside, — outside of
the pew and the clergyman and all the people, out into the
open air, where I can think as I like."
" And do as you like : you make me say so."
Aunt Sophia looks up from the pretty white shawl she is
knitting for her niece.
"Beth, dear, you don't know, you don't understand Mr.
Flint : tell him why you mostly dislike church-going."
Bethune looks away from them both into the coal-red fire,
and rests her head upon her hand, and gives herself time
before she answers slowly, —
" I think it is because I have been so often trying to like
it, and I don't think I have ever got beyond the trying to
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the actual accomplishment of it. It's no use being given an
exchange of one text for another, when you don't understand
either. And why should there be so many contradictions —
such flat contradictions too : I mean, they fall so flat ; they
don't make any of your thoughts rise up. And then I never
can see," she adds, in the tone of a person who thinks aloud,
"why a dogma should be made to mean an infallible axiom
of the Church, or for any of its adherents either, for that
matter. Dogmas must necessarily change and improve, just
as surely as the Church and its generation of adherents will
improve and progress of course with the age they live in."
Bethune meets the astonished and half-quizzical gaze of
Mr. Flint, and pauses with a sudden consciousness of her
lengthening string of objections, seeing with what a dry smile
he regards this burst of vehemence she has launched upon
him. "Well, then," she laughs, with a quick sparkle of
humourous defiance at the light in which he will probably
hold her, " * there are dings and dings and dings,' as my little
baby sister says when she can't express all she wants."
" Do you know what I am ? " he asks hurriedly, but adopting
his quietest tone, and fixing his grey eyes confidently upon
her.
"A clergyman."
"Yes, I am a clergyman ; but not the clergyman perhaps
you think : I am of the unaristocratic order styled Inde-
pendent."
"You preach what you find," gently exclaims Bethune ; " I
mean, what you find in your mind to preach: is that it? Don't
think me rude ; but I have never met one before." Her long
lashes make a quiet shadow of repose round her quick sharp-
lifting eyes. A moment's silence. Aunt Sophia's needles
seem to mark it with their steady click.
There is the rattle of teacups outside, the entrance of the
teatray ; and Mr. Flint rises to take his leave. Aunt Sophia
presses him to stay. "Not to-night. I have to think over to-
morrow's discourse ; besides, my housekeeper has an array of
bills and papers and domestic affairs pending my supervision
after my month's holiday."
The servant arranges the tea, and the kettle is set to boil
and steam and hiss. Aunt and niece wait apparently for the
front door to be slammed before they speak.
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" Beth., now does that man seem to you ? "
" Good, aunt ; and possibly, when I know more of him,
better/' ♦
" Better than whom ?" sharply questions Aunt Sophia. But
Bethune turns again to her old occupation of fancying hiero-
glyphics in the fire. " It is curious," resumes Aunt Sophia,
finding her niece is silent, " how pale-grey eyes seem to be
peculiar to clergymen. Have you never remarked it ? "
"Just as if," Bethune quickly returns, "all the verve and
passion in their lives had been washed out. Perhaps, though,
it is only right in their case."
" Ah ! that was what Guinevere had to complain about —
too little colour — wasn't it ? Bethune, you always were a girl
with notions, but you will like my friend in time," — rising and
infusing the tea.
CHAPTER II.
" Now, Bethune, I am ready.'' Aunt and niece turn down
the Richmond Road, Hackney, and, keeping straight on for
half a mile, arrive at the door of the ugly, square-built chapel
where Mr. Flint preaches. The interior is quite as ugly and
barren of architectural device as the exterior, save for a hand-
some pulpit-desk with a delicate scroll of woodwork bordering
it, and which she can minutely observe, for their pew stands
just a few seats from the front of the pulpit.
The service is new to Bethune : there is no need, she is
unconsciously aware, to constrain her attention; the extempore
prayers, which more or less ask for a give-and-take toleration,
sufficiently attract and exercise her mind upon them.
The opening prayer is not a little startling to her, prejudiced
although she is in favour of " the Church and its adherents "
loosening the hold of " infallible doctrines and dogmas."
The Divine Being is designated as one vast separate Power ;
Christ and His apostles and the lesser magnates described as
men of holy type and ensamples of rigid pattern. To uphold
Christ — His teachings — has been and is of the greatest political
and social consequence; practically no one can justify the
belief or hope of realizing the embodiment of his ideas ; with
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other wide and general comments, — e.g.. Prayer is inefficacious
and futile as a positive means to ends, though it has its
abstract use in inducing a higher form of ideas, and lends
a better expression to the soul's individuality. Certainly it is
a null and void investment applied solely and/*r se.
Bethune's attention is fully gained — more fully than clearly,
perhaps.
Aunt Sophia, observant, smiles complacently.
" The wind bloweth where it listeth," — a poetical text and
an independent text ; a text with an air of rather sad inde-
pendence about it, as if the vast element were absolutely
alone in its careless power for might or gentleness, as its
mood chanced to be ; as if it were always a question whether
it would crush in its giant strength or soothe in its softer, idler
moments.
" No community," Mr. Flint commences, " is possessed of
true value — radical value — that cannot suffer the air of other
and different opinions to play upon it, to let the wind of free
thought blow where it listeth ; and that is one reason why I
often attempt to place before you a comparative account of
social theology — by social theology meaning the various forms
and dogmas and doctrines followed and practised by the laity
specially, and even the pet theological idiosyncracies which
are more generally cherished and nurtured by the opposite
sex of both High and Low Church tendencies ; holding up
to your view the straws of opinion which are blown about by
occasional polemical winds. Polemical winds are a consequent
of independent spirits ; they disperse the dust and cobwebs
of dilemmas, and rout out the by-corners of angular minds.
" Since my last sermon to you I have met many people in
my journeyings, people of all kinds and sorts of religion — some
with no religion at all — that is, I suppose you would say so,
unless you would make a more generous stretch of the word
' religion/ and let it cover a wider area of God's people. I
have been sorry to break away from the good understanding
of companionship, even from a moment's amicable entretien
with many a fellow-traveller, sometimes of only a day's ac-
quaintance. I have looked into eyes and almost into hearts
that beat, and by some imperceptible gleam of sympathy
claimed a kindred alliance of soul and reason ; and we have
parted, never to know each other again or to cha:
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given with a droll smile which -Bethune does not catch in the
dusk, for it is a diplomatic speech. " He must have found
something contrariwise, or else he would riot have given you
such a transfigured likeness."
Bethune May bites her lip and keeps silence. Aunt
Sophia's speech makes her niece a very rebel against Robert
Flint's fancied opinion of her. " If he is not as impervious as
his name, he will like my niece," was her prophecy when she
wrote and asked Bethune to come; but she forbore any
mention of him : she knew her objection to clergymen. Seeing
was believing : she felt there was sureness and something more
than possibility in the creed of St Thomas.
CHAPTER III.
"AUNT Sophia! That lovely pink ribbon and impossible
bow — whom can th$y be for ? "
"Mr. Flint"
" Oh !" Bethune has just come in from a long walk as far
as the Lea. " Very well," she breaks into a merry laugh ;
" then I suppose I likewise had better adjust myself."
Ten minutes later she is back again, with a smile and a
sweeping curtsey, inviting Aunt Sophia's ready attention.
Her attire is a dark-grey silk, sufficiently long to be graceful
without getting in anybody's way. White ruffles at the neck
and wrists, white frilling peeping round the edge of her skirt.
Aunt Sophia adjusts her eyeglass ; the appearance of the frill
is novel to her.
"What is all that fuss dropping below your dress ? "
Bethune laughs. " Why, it is a sort of trimming to keep
one's dress from wearing out Don't you think it is pretty ? "
"H'm! Perhaps it is pretty — the widow's style turned
upside down," Aunt Sophia adds hastily, for she hears Mr.
Flint's footstep outside the door.
Bethune is gazing idly out of the window when he enters,
intent upon watching a pair of pigeons over the way ; her face
is turned so that he is just able to catch sight of her most
innocent expression. Beth, under its surface, laughs, and
thinks, "Do I not affect the Madonna now?" Only in the
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Betku?u. 287
depths of her eye is there mischief lurking ; but then her foil
gaze is not at once apparent to him.
She bows and advances. " My aunt was just now lament-
ing your non-appearance all the week : she wanted to per-
suade me that I was a scarecrow."
"Well, I hope you don't look upon me as a bird of ill-
omen. I did not come," turning to Miss Tozer, " because I
thought you would not miss me. You are not alone now.
What did you think, Miss May," going back to Bethune, "of
our little chapel ? Have you been in one before ? "
" No. I thought it plain and ugly/' is her uncompromising
reply.
Mr. Flint smiles gravely. "Feminine eyes are hard to
please."
•' Yes, they must be very hard to please if that could please
them," says Bethune, her eyes dancing, her colour mounting
brilliantly, and looking as opposite to a saintlike Madonna as
possible. He can only compare her to some pert little robin.
" Ah well ! And the service, the unwritten form — did that
please ? "
" Yes, I liked the prayers. I followed them : I didn't have
to try to do it And — and, Mr. Flint," with a kind of quick
hesitation that makes Aunt Sophia tremble for what may be
coming next, — " isn't an Independent just a kind of Bohemian
clergyman — his ideas ? "
" Oh, Beth ! " breaks in Aunt Sophia, " what will Mr. Flint
think of my niece — my niece with her wild chaotic notions ? "
" I think your niece is an admirable subject, Miss Tozer,"
is Mr. Flint's answer : his tone so dry and grave that Bethune
chooses to think he is deriding her.
" For clerical anatomy ? " she rejoins, ' with some pique
and not a little disdain in her tone. He looks at her with
surprise, as if she says something out of his reckoning ; he is
at a loss to account for her spirit of animadversion. Aunt
Sophia's ball of wool comes unravelling towards him ; he
makes up the unwound ball as rapidly as lightning for her.
Evidently some personality suggests itself to Bethune, for as
he catches her glance she colours deeply and embarrassingly.
" If I knew you well enough," coming and standing near
her, " I should like to urge ' a penny for your thoughts.' "
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"Honestly?'
288 S/. J tones'* Magazine.
He bows, and urges, " Give me a clue."
" I " (rather reluctantly) " I was thinking of Julian Gray, the
hero of Wilkie Collins' last book, you know : he " (with the
naTfvest of expressions) "wound balls. I always thought " — with
just enough of pleading in her tone and eye not to be coquet-
tish, and yet to plead her exculpation — " there was so much of
a made-to-ordcr manner about him in that particular scene
with Grace Roseberry." There is no shadow round her eyes
now ; they are laughing, shining bright and full upon him ;
but they fail to see any discomfiture. Once more Aunt
Sophia's ball rolls a little way; he picks it up hurriedly, winds
it again, and rising, gives her a hearty hand-shake, and says,
" Goodbye, Miss May," with a little grave bow, and does not
go forward and hold out his hand, as she is expecting him
to do.
" It won't hurt him, Beth," says Aunt Sophia quietly ; " but
you might break him in a little more gently: don't you think
so, dear?" smoothing Beth's crisp brown hair. "Because I told
you he thought women wanted putting to rights, don't be
hard upon Robert Flint."
CHAPTER IV.
BETHUNE, alone with her thoughts, is smiling trustfully, with
a world of pleasantry in her look, as she reads for the second
or third time a letter from Jack Sheppard. As children they
have been playmates together ; and now he asks her to be
something more. With just the shadow of a frown as she
once more goes over its contents, she wishes Jack had let his
question remain a little longer unanswered. He knows what
her reply will be ; but she does not want, she tells herself, to
be tied down too soon. Only Jack will not be patient much
longer : why should he ?
Beth's father and mother have long ago given their consent,
but Beth is wayward, and gives him tantalizing answers, just
within the margin of possible acquiescence.
There are voices at the front door. Aunt Sophia's and a
man's-Mr. Flint's, of course.
Beihune. 289
Mr. Flint is coming in. Bethune turns round — her letter
in her pocket, an open book upon her lap.
Aunt Sophia beats a hasty retreat ; she has a certain bottle
of wine on her mind, which is to do duty at supper, and she
hastens to leave them.
" Good evening, Miss May. I hope you are quite well.
You were not with Miss Tozer to-night" A slight air of
authority in his tone and manner. " I hope you can find a
good excuse."
" Thanks. ' Qui s'exaise, £ accuse? I have nothing to excuse
myself about."
"Are you making an implication against me? What is
it ?" (his tone suggestive of the deference adopted towards an
overgrown child).
No reply. Beth's colour mounts ; there is a sparkle almost
of fierceness in her look, while there is coldness in his. She
idly turns over the pages of the book before her, and thinks
almost gratefully of Jack Sheppard.
"What is it, Miss May?" he demands authoritatively.
"I didn't come to church — I beg your pardon, chapel —
because I don't care, personally and individually I mean, to
be made a public illustration of, however helpful towards the
aggrandisement of the sermon, which of course it certainly
was."
Her answer surprises him ; it is too direct, too brusque, not
to cause annoyance. His face changes colour.
"Ah!" drawing in his breath a little as he recals his last
sermon but one, " I was always an eclectic. I mentioned it
that night. Your face was the best for my purpose ; if there
had been another as serviceable, I should have taken it. I
regret to have caused you offence." It is stiffly and awkwardly
said, and Beth knows she is defeated and crushed. What is
she to say ? Well, when she has swallowed her wrath, which
maybe chokes her a little at present, she will be indifferent ;
laughing, smiling, merry, merry as possible she will be again.
" Oh, auntie dear," as Miss Tozer enters, " I'm as hungry
as if I had been listening to a sermon. How we laughed at
my exaggerated portrait, didn't we, auntie ?" Aunt Sophia
does not remember laughing, but she sees her niece's brightest
expression turned towards her, and she goes up to her and
kisses h$r fondly.
290 Si. Jameses Magazine.
Mr. Flint draws himself up to his full height, and takes up
the book which Bethune has put down, while she makes a
comparative memorandum of his and Jack's height ; and I am
not sure that with a true feminine instinct for " big," " broad-
set," " firmly-knit," and other eloquent attributes, he does not
materially suffer by the comparison.
"Supper is ready downstairs," interposes Aunt Sophia;
" there's nothing like a good meal for dissipating the ' rankles.'"
And she hurries out of the room again, and leaves her niece
and guest to follow.
" Are you making a long stay here ?" Mr. Flint inquires, as
they slowly obey Aunt Sophias behest.
" No ; only two or three weeks more."
" I think you are like the Madonna," he says, looking at
her fixedly; "more than I thought. It's the extra warmth
and colour — the womanly wiles about your expression that
upset it. You needn't have minded, you know," he adds with
a sudden gentleness.
"Why?"
" Because it was such a help. It took me back, and gave
me all my holiday again, out of this ' hackneyed ' smiling
faintly atmosphere. Your face gave breath and life to my
thoughts — at least, it seemed so to me. Of course to some —
to the congregation — it may have sounded rhapsodical."
They reach the dining-room. Aunt Sophia is in her
bustling mood ; the wrong bottle is decanted. She must go
down herself and see to it. Beth and Mr. Flint are not to
wait.
" Why do you stay here, Mr. Flint ?" Beth asks, refusing to
sit down till Aunt Sophia reappears, and coming and standing
opposite to him on the other side of the mantelshelf. " Arc
there not more congenial places to be found ?"
"Well, because Shall I tell you ?" watching Bethune
catching at a letter which she pulls out with her handkerchief
from her pocket.
" Please."
" Well, because, to go back to the beginning, first of all wc
are a large family — nine of us. I am the second of the nine,
and a stepson. My father is a needy country squire, and my
mother brought no money with her, so I had just to accept
whatever came in my way. This came in my way, and I took
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Bethune. 291
it. I became an Independent clergyman, for I could not
brook to be tied down by established form. There seemed
no chance for me but this ; they didn't want me at home ; I
was not 'difficult to spare.' I took in pupils — take in pupils
now; and the preaching, the service, is my relaxation. I
have as many and more than I can arrange for. I am saving,
— saving hard, Miss May ; and when I can I shall retire from
this, leave off the pupils if possible, and live abroad — any-
where that takes my fancy."
"And then?" with a mischievous gleam which he returns
with a smile.
" Many, I suppose."
"The climax of everything."
"A woman's climax."
"And what is a man's ? "
" I haven't found that out yet. Perhaps, but I am not sure,
it's a well-stocked cellar and well-dished food. Ah, here's the
claret !" rubbing his hands with well-feigned pleasure.
" No, it's not : it's Beaune," returns Aunt, Sophia — " a wine
of more mettle than claret." She gives a slight start, and
looks at Bethune. " I am sure that's my godson. I know
his knock out of a thousand. Jack must have come by the
afternoon train from Rexham."
" Am I to be admitted so late ? " is Jack Sheppard's
greeting, only his head visible through the doorway, a pair
of brown eyes eagerly singling out Beth, after a casual glance
in Miss Tozer's direction, and he pushes his fingers a little
hesitatingly through a thick crop of fair, close-cut hair. A
bright smile from Beth has the instantaneous effect of
composure upon him. He comes in with a quick air of
assurance, takes his godmother nearly off her feet with the
heartiness of his embrace, and seats himself between her
and Beth.
But Beth, instead of eager questioning about home, and
whether he has been to see them all very lately, leaves it to
Aunt Sophia, and gives only monosyllables to Jack as he
offers to help her to this and that dish.
"Beth, you are very quiet ; are you happy, dear ? " whispers
Jack at the first opportunity.
" I wish you had waited a little longer," she exclaims almost
fretfully, yet with an air of soft petulance ; " for I don't want
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292 5*/. James s Magazine.
to feel settled and only to have one sort of attention. It
makes everything come to an end so soon."
Jack bites his lip, but he laughs nevertheless. "She is
such a child at times, and such a clever, wilful little woman at
others."
" Let it rest, then/Beth, for a bit ; but you'll love me all the
same ? " with a quiver of pleading in his tone and look
" I am glad you came," she replies demurely ; and he looks
more satisfied.
" Have you come to town on business ? " asks Aunt Sophia
rather anxionsly.
" Yes, partly : I have to consult my lawyer about an out-
lying farm which my father mortgaged. And," proceeding more
hurriedly with the rest of his explanation, " Mrs. May told me
that, by your leave, Bethune might like to come back under
my care perhaps. I shall be obliged to remain for a fortnight.
May I run down and see you occasionally — that is, pretty
often ? " He gets rather hot as he asks this.
"Of course, as often as you like," returns Aunt Sophia
quickly, who has known Jack Sheppard more or less as
boy and man, and approves of him thoroughly for his good-
heartedness. But just now she has her fancy that Bethune
would be more suitable for sweeping away Robert Flint's
cobwebs and occasional transcendentalism than for taking
kind, easy-hearted Jack by the hand. There can be only one
woman for a man with Robert Flint's nature, and that woman
she wishes to believe is Bethune.
Supper is over, and they rise and gather round the fireplace.
" Are your thoughts translatable, Miss May ? Can I help
you to put them together ? "
" Perhaps ; " but she shakes her head. " I am afraid they
are not very clear to myself; and then — they are foolish."
" Others may see them in a better light for you."
" You can try if you like," Beth half sighs. " I have been
thinking about the old legend that man and woman were
one, once, long ago ; how, after they fell through space, they
were divided ; and ever since, you know, one humanity goes
wandering after its other half, unconsciously hoping to find
it — its affinity, in fact. But how is it," looking away from the
fire and regarding his swiftly-changing expression with curious
satisfaction, "when one meets two affinities ? You know it hap-
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Bethune. 293
pens so sometimes," she exclaims, with a kind of apologetic
eagerness. " There are people who answer to one side of your
character for weeks and months together, and then perhaps
another comes and answers — ah, just as well again to a dif-
ferent side, — one you have hardly known of yourself. What
are you to do ? " she adds in a vehement whisper ; " how to
choose ? You are a clergyman ; I think you should know."
Her tone is fast and imperious.
He smiles at some parts of her speech ; frowns, bites his lip
at others : a passion of almost uncontrollable breathlessness
seems to master his speech at first.
" You can't equalise those two likings, can you ? The one
must outweigh the other : don't you find it ? Or does the
latter appear the more desirable ? "
There is too much sarcasm in his tone for Bethune to reply
naturally. She prefers to be silent.
"You don't see my meaning ? "
" I do. But I do not choose to observe it when you give me
that tone."
" Very well ; I won't adopt it again. Will you answer me
now ? "
" Equalise has nothing to do with it, Mr. Flint. I can't put
them together ; I wish I could — the two affinities would make
such a good complete one.** She stops short suddenly.
" I am listening ; I want to hear more.''
" Well," she smiles, half shyly, and yet with a half-bold
frankness, " the one that might be the nearest is not, perhaps,
after all, the one with the power for giving most happiness.
I can't help the thought that with some kind of affinities there
would happen a few moments, some short-lived time, of
intense realistic happiness, and all the rest of the time to
follow would only be dull and harassing and weary."
" Old, odd thoughts for you, Miss May."
" Yes ; but I am always — that is, often — thinking about it,
and I see it in other people's lives. Yet it must be selfish to
select the one answering to the greatest happiness, — I mean
the greatest continuous happiness. Which ought it to be ? "
There is so much sad earnestness in the girl's questioning
eyes, so much will brought to bear upon him, that Robert
Flint's manner changes.
" My de^r Miss May, those are problems— problems indeed
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294 •$"/. Jcimes^s Magazine.
— you give me. T do not know. To me, though I am not a
man who thinks of treating with love, there can be only one
affinity, as you term it. There may be other seeming affinities,
but they are merely pleasurable, not realistic and holdfast.
You speak as if you are afraid — that there is at least an
element of fear : that cannot be love, love in its essence. I
am not speaking the cant of my profession, for I quote an
immortal axiom when I say there is no fear in love ; and I
believe, too, as surely, there must be equality in it. But
leave it alone — leave it to time. I never talk about love ; I
can't bear it, unless it is from the pulpit ; it is an ingredient
that has not mixed itself up much with my life."
" Tell me about it some day," whispers Bethune. " No, I
don't think you can help me. Thank you," she adds simply.
Robert Flint thinks over her words as he walks home.
" Women can't ' see life ' ; if they could they would know
how to choose. To 'see life' uses up superfluous love, or its
imitation ; it sifts it, and doesn't touch the element in its
essence. True men," he soliloquises vaguely, " keep that
essence in reserve : it has only power for one— at least, I don't
think I should query that." And he shrugs his shoulders as
a sort of nunc dimittis.
" Beth, do you want to go back with Jack ? "
" No, I don't ; I want to think about him when he isn't by
me."
" What do you want to think about him ? "
" Whether we are * made for each other,' as old nurse de-
clares," says Bethune, with a break in her voice and a troubled
look. " You know, auntie, I have been brought up to think
of Jack as ' nearer and dearer yet than all other ' ever since I
left off wearing pinafores, and it's been a little tedious some-
times having it always before me ; and Jack, dear Jack, wouldn't
understand, and an explanation would be worse than his mis-
apprehension. Auntie, you understand what I mean ? "
"Aunt Sophia can't help you, dear. You must fight it out
for yourself, which," with a significant pause, " it is to be."
Beth colours, and is silent a little.
" But it's so horrid, so humiliating," getting out her words
with a reluctant jerk that sends a smile over Aunt Sophia's
face of anxiety. " And I always, in my secret heart, auntie,
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Only a Music-Master. i/4?"v*. $t\
v.^ / '' ' v
"Oh, Horatia, do tell me that he is alive an<3 Nifell,— that
you have seen him ! "
"Seen whom ?"
" You know. You must know ! "
" Oh, the music-master, of course. Yes, I have seen him ;
but it was not very likely that I, Mr. Ormsby's daughter,
should make any particular inquiries about my music-master's
health. I only wonder the elect Lady Selmore should so far
condescend."
"lam very wretched, Horatia."
44 Very singular, truly, while the whole town envies you/'
"They would not envy me if they could look into my
heart."
" Well, they might expect to find rather nobler sentiments
there, Ellen ; but I can't understand you. We are living in
the nineteenth century, when fair damsels are not carried off
on pillions to strong castles, and offered their choice of marriage
or a nunnery. If you don't like Lord Selmore "
" But I do like him, admire him, respect him, and^ " .
" In fact you don't know your own mind. You will and you
will not ! If you have all this admiration for his lordship, do
pray keep your childish fancy from wandering to other people.
If you like somebody else better, don't be dishonourable to
him."
" I don't know what to do, Horatia. I am a poor coward ;
my health is failing, and my nerves are so shaken I have no
courage to — to "
"To speak the truth, eh?"
" No ; I have no courage to oppose my parents. Ah, if he
really liked me ! "
"Who ? " said Horatia, sharply.
"Valerio."
" But he does not like you."
" No, I know he does not, and I did so hope I was beginning
to forget him. Don't you see how altered lam?"
"Yes, you are looking much older: London gaieties, I
suppose ? "
" No, not London gaieties, but real misery. I have lost my
spirits entirely."
" I can't say I pity you, Ellen ; the promised bride of Lord
Selmore is scarcely an object of compassion/' Digitized by Goode
VOL. I. 22
312 St. James's Magazine.
" As his bride she is not, for he is all that is great and
noble."
" Ellen, you are incomprehensible."
"Ami?"
" Yes, truly ! Where are all your old flirtations, your daring
speeches, your defiance of what you used to call feigned pro-
prieties ? "
" I don't know ; I am an altered being. I have not a friend
in the world except Lord Selmore, and he is the last person
on earth I dare speak to confidentially. It is a pity he did
not choose you, Horatia: you are far better suited to him
than I ; you would make a noble pair."
Horatia was tempted to say, " He did choose me, I repulsed
him, and it was my hand that directed him to you ; " but she
put a little restraint on herself for many reasons, and only
answered, " Ask him when next you see him, put the question
to him straightforward,— say, ' Why did you prefer me to Miss
Ormsby ?' ■ Note his answer, and look well into his face while
he replies."
" I should not dare to do that"
" I'll tell you what, Ellen : you think this style of thing
elegant and becoming, but I assure you that sentiment only
makes you monotonous and wearisome. When you are
married, don't try your husband's patience with it"
" I shall try to do my duty," said Ellen humbly ; " my mind
is altered, as my heart. I am not the same being I was."
" So it seems ; but what earthly motive can induce you to
make me your confidante I can't imagine."
" Nor can I understand it myself," said Ellen. " I suppose
it is that I am wretched — that I have no one to speak to^"1
"Well, take my advice, and keep your wretchedness to
yourself."
"I will try," said Ellen, with a little attempt at dignity that
was a great failure. " I will try ; but, Horatia, you always
had a great sense of justice and konour"
"HadH Well?"
"Help me to perform an act of that same justice and
honour." .
"How?" . .
' "Yalerio was never paid for my music-lessons"
With all her command of countengntce?b ^sfj^Qflpsby
r
Only a Music*Master. 313
coloured crimson. She might affect to speak contemptuously
of Valerio fierself when obliged to mention him, but to hear
of him from another as one to be paid for his services made
her writhe mentally.
. Ellen continued, "Mamma — I think mamma forgot it; at
all events he is still unpaid, and I am sure he is poor/'
* How dare you ! " exclaimed Horatia passionately,
" What do you mean ? " cried Ellen.
"Oh," said Horatia, recovering herself with an effort, "I
meant, how could you talk so of the man whom you have pro-
fessed to loye ? "
" Oh, Horatia, you won't understand me. God knows I am
not thinking of his poverty as a reproach ; but I want him to
have the money that is justly his own, and so I have saved
the sum we owe him, that I may not tease mamma about it,
and I want you to take it to him as if it came from mamma.
Don't mention me to him."
"And. you wajlt me to take him this money from you ? "
" No. I said from mamma : didn't you hear me ? "
" And you think I Mfill help you to act a falsehood ! "
"Horatia, why do you delight in humbling and insulting
me? Never mind ; I will tell Lord Selmore all about it— I
will give him the money to send — — "
" You will ! Foolish girl, when you know you can't mention
his name without betraying yourself ! "
"Then I will put the money in a packet and send it myself ;
the—the bill came in to me."
"Ellen, you must not," cried Horatia impulsively, "you
must not ; you are lost if you do. Here, give me the money,
if it must be so, and then, do dismiss everything connected
with that man from your mind. If you do not, I warn you
the consequences will be fatal. But every one is looking at us
— £efe; and .there is my father waiting for me, and wondering
what all this earnest conversation is about."
Ellen placed a small parcel in Horatia's hand, which she
evidently had carried about with her, awaiting some oppor-
tunity of conveying it to its destination. Horatia took the
parcel with a little .. gesture of contempt, »nd turned away.
When she had leisure td examine it, she found three five*
pound notes neatly put up in delicate paper, on which was
written in a careful, graceful hand, " With Ellen Grantley's
314 Si. James's Magazine.
regards and thanks." Then the whole was addressed " Signor
Valerio," and trembling fingers had traced the words. Who
ever wrote a name beloved with a steady hand ? Ah ! surely
a stoic, and not a woman !
Horatia tore the paper and envelope into a thousand bits.
About the money she hesitated. She had a great inclination
to throw it into the Serpentine. At all events she would
change the notes into coin; the same that had come from
Ellen's hand should not pass into those of Valerio — on that
point she was very decided ; one would have thought that
she feared the existence of a subtle magic in the innocent
notes.
The talking and the laughing, and the people who acted it
all, seemed very much in earnest ; but Ellen Grantley thought
with a sad pity, and Horatia with contempt, that many of the
faces wore masks, and though some of them wore smoother
ones, there were the wrinkles of care underneath, and behind
the smiling eyes were hidden envy, hatred, malice, and all
uncharitableness. How many glittering coronets and flowery
wreaths were twined round aching, throbbing temples !
Horatia knew nothing of life from knowledge or experience,
but she had a rare sagacity in discovering and recognising
petty, mean vices under respectable guises. She recognised
falsehood under its subtlest disguise. Her own life might be
a lie, but she did net the less despise lying. She saw that
she had no right to walk through the world with her head
erect, and to cast haughty glances on those around her, but
the very sense that she had forfeited a great right made her
cling pertinaciously to its exercise ; and she learned to doubt
whether others were at all better than herself — whether the
blush on a girl's cheek were genuine, or the mamma's apparent
vigilance only assumed before the eye of the world. She saw
quickly enough through the fortune-hunter who pursued her
steps with seeming devotion, because he had heard of her as
an heiress, and little knew the heiress's circumstances ! She
recognised the folly and fatuity of the man who believed all
the women who approached him dying for his love. She saw
quickly enough into the ruling passion, the motive action of
the human puppets that surrounded her. But in one man she
instinctively believed wholly and entirely, as in the noblest
nature. How she wondered with regretful wonder that she
f
Only a Music-Master. 315
had not known and appreciated him before, — before it was too
late, before an eternal barrier had been placed between them
by her own sin and folly. How often in bitterness of heart
she repeated " Too late, too late ! Oh, Valerio, you have cost
me dearly ! I promised you the hatred of a life ; yet in spite
of myself I think of you again and again with a soft, foolish
tenderness that makes me despise myself even more for
Ah, I must not think the hideous words ! And to think that I
might have been Selmore's honoured wife, and am for eternity
tied to the music-master ! "
CHAPTER XVII.
HYDE PARK,
THE Park was unusually full, even for the height of the
season in London. Pale, tired, even haggard women, sat,
or rather lay, in the carriages ; for the fashion of lying down
in public had just been introduced. It was not a Paris fashion,
however, and rather savoured of oriental grace than western
invention. Among the carriages was an elegant, low, open
conveyance drawn by a pair of thoroughbred greys. The
sole occupant, unless we speak of the small tiger behind her,
was a young woman towards whom every eye as she passed
was directed. She wore a closely-fitting pelisse of the richest
black watered silk, a collar standing up like a man s, a little
black silk cravat, and a small hat turned up with a feather of
silver grebe. Her little hands, delicately gloved in primrose
kid, held whip and reins with a light, firm grasp.
The young woman was not beautiful; her features had
no form, her face neither expression nor colouring ; but her
figure was fine, and she had a mass of fair hair. She had an
air of decision and confidence, indeed entire self-reliance ; and
she drove like one accustomed to horses and — their masters.
Every one looked as she passed — men and women ; some
whispered. The fair Jehu received many bows from the
gentlemen — some familiar, a few almost if not quite respect-
ful. To some she replied by a slight inclination^ of \\
316 5/. yamefs Magazine.
to others by a familiar nod, — to a few by a smile of much
meaning. Evidently she had a large acquaintance.
The ring was* full ; so was the promenade beside it ; a
great many lounged, leaning on the railing, and looking at
the occupants of the carriages. Some among them were fair,
but they had little notice compared to that attracted by the
female Jehu. The daughters of fashion observed this, and
accurately measured her costume, her very equipage, her
horses, — fully determined in those respects to go and do
likewise, little thinking that it was none of all this that really
won attention for the incognita, but that her speciality lay
elsewhere. Among the ladies driving— or being driven, rather,
for she never held the reins^-was Horatia. Her eye had fol-
lowed the incognita for some time with a curiosity unusual to
her.
" Who is she ?" she inquired of Lady Laura Tremayne, who
sat beside her.
"Hush — unmentionable! But she is rich, has taste, and
onditz, beautiful house in Park Lane, besides a cottage-orn/e
out of town."
" Why do all these men bow to her in public ?"
" Oh, she's the fashion— considered a beauty too. I must
say she has faultless taste. I should like to know her milliner.
I'd buy the very ditto of that charming hat."
" How dare she show her face here, among women of— cha-
racter!" said Horatia, getting very red as she spoke. I wonder
if nothing could be done to put down such a public scandal 2"
"Nothing," said Lady Laura. "The best thing we can do
is to shut our eyes and extract what good we can out of the
circumstances."
' " Good ! What good can we extract by coming in contact
with pollution?"
w Oh, just a few hints for dress and so on ; they are worth
having, when the fashions are growing so monotonous."
"Ah well! Were I influential, I would "
" What would you do ?"
" Discourage all immorality, by refusing equally to receive
men who degraded themselves as women."
" Oh dear, what empty rooms you'd have, Miss Ormsfcy,
and how many stones you'd throw ! Who knows how many
windows would prove to be glass that are now supposed to
* ■
Only a Music-Master* 317
be But do look : look at that gentleman standing by the
railings and taking off his Jiat, bowing to some one. I never
saw such a beautiful head."
Horatia looked, and positively gasped. At the railing she
saw, or thought she saw, Valerio ; his fair head bent low, his
face expressing great animation. Her first feeling was con-
sternation and surprise ; then came a tender feeling, almost
gratitude for so much love. He had come to town to look
upon her face. Poor Valerio! How good and trusting!
Buf no ; it was not at her he was looking. . Did her eyes
deceive her ? She pressed her hands tightly together,, firmly
closed her lips over her clenched teeth, and compelled herself
to sit still. The incognita had driven up close to the rails
— she had extended her hand to Valerio, and given him a
card.
It was to her he had bowed — on her face that his eyes had
been fixed !
Horatia's carriage came up shortly afterwards.
The object was gone, but Valerio was pursuing her with his
eyes. As Horatia approached, he turned and looked at her —
looked at her without any apparent confusion — without — yes,
without recognition. Her proud heart leapt up within her.
He was looking her full in the face in broad daylight, with no
intervening object, at no great distance ; but he did not or
would not know her. Yet still he gazed — gazed admiringly,
too, as if his admiration were quite newly-born, as if he saw
her for the first time ; but it was a modest gaze also, quite
apart from the coarse, impertinent homage that must offend
any woman of refinement.
Horatia felt sick and faint, all the more for the wrath that
was boiling up in her heart and which she was compelled to
keep sealed down. She drew her veil over her face, but it was
a gossamer, and only served as a voile d la beauU, to heighten
the charms it pretended to hide. The young man followed
her with his eyes ; then hastened to follow her with his person,
never losing sight of her till she entered her home in L
Square. As she left the carriage he was but a few yards'
distance from her, still gazing on her admiringly, still with no
glance of recognition, although
" With every glance he stole,
The fond enthusiast rent his soul"
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318 St. James's Magazine.
And he dared so to look at her, even when he had just treated
her with insolence, and— oh, far more unbearable ! — had given
her a rival.
Horatia made a great resolve that day, — a resolve such as
few women could have made, fewer still would keep.
Valerio was false to her ! She kept repeating this to herself
as though there were a soothing charm in the cruel sound.
False — false ! Misery fascinates some souls as much as joy.
Instead of flying from the hideous image, they seem to seise
upon its painful form and hug it to them for fear it should
escape.
Horatia took a fierce pleasure, it seemed, in torturing
herself. She mentally and momentarily reviewed the scene
in the Park as though she had met there the happiest of
visions ; and if a memory of Valerio's past tenderness and
affection rose up in her heart, she thrust it out, and hardened
herself more and more in her bitter mood. From that day
she plunged deeply into every gaiety that presented itself.
One of her motives for going through a London season had
been to try whether she could live without Valerio. She had
found the task difficult ; she found it so still ; but she was
resolved to arrive at independence at any cost, almost resolved
to marry, and she had many adorers.
Apart entirely from her great measure of beauty, lovers
Horatia would always have. There are some women who
know not what it is to pass a year without some new slave at
their feet, even when they have arrived at a period of tired
existence when each homage seems to themselves a mockery.
Horatia was one of these. She was young; but she knew
that were she to double her then years, she would command
most men's attention as now. It was this very certainty of
possessing an undying power to charm, that tended to increase
the bitterness of one man's insensibility and desertion, — and
that one the being for whose lightest pleasure she would freely
have sacrificed all the rest of the race, — for whom she had
renounced rank, splendour, wealth, and all the hopes her
towering pride had cherished. This man was false ! She
would lift herself up from the dust to which Valerio had
reduced her ; she would yet make a brilliant marriage, and
her loss re-awakening his passion would sting him to despair.
Horatia had enough of pride, honour, and conscience left, to
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Only a Music-Master. 319
know that she had forfeited all right to bear the name of any
man of honour and reputation; but she thrust aside such
considerations, and justified herself in her own mind by the
reflection that all men were alike renegades from honour and
virtue. She would probably be deceived herself in the man of
her choice : did it matter much if she deceived him ? Life was
one gigantic cheat. Why not oppose deception to deception,
fraud to fraud ? In condemning mankind she admitted of one
great exception — Selmore. He was above reproach — above
suspicion. Ah, had she never rendered herself unworthy of
him and of his love ! Were she free now ! But she felt that
she would shrink from deceiving him.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE HOUSE IN PARK LANE.
It was a splendidly furnished house, but not always in the
purest taste. Though so rich, there was much incongruity,
and here and there even an object that might be designated
as coarse and vulgar. The lady on the ottoman was ex-
quisitely dressed, but even in her dress there was a little
incongruity, as in her house. One thing was peculiarly notice-
able: not a solitary stray book was to be seen around — no sign
of anything in the shape of literature, unless it might be BelFs
Life.
The incognita was seated on a pink satin lounge. On the
carpet at her feet sat a fair young man with a little yellow
moustache just curling over his small, effeminate mouth. It
is a misfortune to a man to have one of those weak little
feminine mouths.
"Go with you on the Continent, indeed! Very likely!
Leave London when its sun shines the brightest. Miss the
Derby, and No, what should I get by it ? "
" The set of diamonds I promised you."
" Yes, you Ve promised them these two years. I can get
diamonds, emeralds, all I want, by staying here."
" I'll tell you what, Lotty : you've no heart at all."
" Heart ! " repeated Lotty, — " heart !" with a peal °^Ai%T(
3-0 5/f. Jameses Magazine.
laughter she meant to be very merry. "What stupid nonsense
you do talk!"
" I believe I da I was an idiot when first I entered your
door."
" No : quite a mistake ; you were not an idiot — that's not
the thing ; you are one, you mean. So, I hear your mother
and sisters are trying to make up a match for you."
" Don't speak of my mother and sisters," groaned the young
man.
" But it's true about the wedding ? "
. * If it is, you don't care."
" They say, too, you haven't an acre of ground without a
mortgage."
" Lotty, you're a fiend. Whose fault is that ? "
" Not mine. I never asked you for anything."
" Asked me ! Who but you— — "
" Well, don't let us quarrel. I shall always be happy to see
you in my house when "
"Your house!"
" Yes ; you can't deny that this house is mine."
"Who made it so?"
" Who ? Oh, Mr. Bernal, the supposed owner of Bernal
Hall, which really belongs to his Jew lawyer Holstock in the
the City. Mr. Bernal made it mine in a moment of weakness,
you will say. I supppse if he hadn't, though, he'd Jiave staked
and lost the money at Ascot."
" What a fool I have been 1 "
" Are, are, you mean. But what is the use of swearing — a
practice I always discourage ? You know I like to keep cool."
" Go with me to the Derby, Lotty ? "
. "Why, you said you'd no money."
" But I can raise some." .
" Can't, really can't, to oblige you. I'm going to the Derby
with Lord "
" I don't believe you know him, or any one like "
" No, I don't know him ; but I will before to-morrow night,
and I'll go with him to the Derby."
"You won't."
€t We shall see. When a woman like me means a thing in
earnest, she usually carries her point."
« But, Lotty!"
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Only a Music-Master. 321
u What have you to say against it ? "
" Have you no conscience, no sense of shame— of "
" What have I to do with shame ? "
"Do you ruin a man, and then forsake him because you
have ruined him ? Did you ever keep faithful to any one a
day after his fortune failed him ? "
u Can't say I have; When his charm, which is his money,
fades, I am off. If my charms, which are my youth and spirits,
failed, be would forsake me. They all know what they have
to expect. Why don't they look before they leap ? "
" Lotty, do you know, did you ever know, what it is to love
any one-— anything ? "
" Yes, it brought me here."
. " What do you mean ? M
" Nothing. But good-night : it is time that you should go.
I expect some one."
" Then I shall stay where I am."
"If you do "
. "Well, what?"
" I swear never to see you again. You may pass me by,
but my eye shall no more see you than a stone wall. Go ;
but I will advise you for your own good— don't marry Horatia
Ormsby."
'• Good heavens ! Who has dared to name Miss Ormsby to
you?"
" No matter ; but I know all about her. I know the history
of most county families, Christian names, present fortune,
expectations and all She has no money. She is an heiress
—yes, just as you are a landed proprietor — nominally, that's
all She is little more than a beggar, and is "
"What?"
"No better than I, though she holds her head so high."
" Hideous ! How dare you talk this way, Lotty ! Pray let
such women as that alone. Once for all, will you go with me
to France?"
" Once for all, no. I have engagements, and won't em-
barrass you further. Go. Good-night. I am going to be
busy."
She pushed the young man towards the door. He resisted,
but was finally expelled by a physical fprce really superior to
his own. Among Lotty's peculiarities was a taste for wine,
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322 St. James's Magazine.
and to it she owed half her strength — more than half her
impudence. Seen in the lamplight, she looked far nearer
prettiness than by day. Her fine form was set off to great
advantage in one of those square-cut Italian bodices, which
are so becoming to a pretty, white neck. Her luxuriant yellow
hair was arranged to the utmost advantage. Her cheeks
were now crimson, whether from wine or art, and lent an
extraordinary lustre to her eyes. Her arms were bare, and
extremely beautiful. From time to time she looked at them
with great complacency. Presently she sat down, wrote and
directed a letter to Lord . It was brief, but cleverly
worded. Lotty was not without education ; she had seen
better days in every sense of the word, unless luxury be
counted. She was mistress of a fine establishment, had money
enough put by to secure her a decent maintenance had she
been content therewith, but she would have called it misery
to live in the country frugally. She never looked forward,
never counted on possibly dark coming days, when lavish
presents would fall no more into her lap. Yet she vaguely
knew that with her youth her day would be over ; only she
was not born to think, and she would not think.
As midnight sounded, a knock was heard at the front door
— not a low and quiet knock, but one rather likely to arouse
the attention of curious neighbours, being given by a vigorous
young hand. A man's step was heard ascending the stairs*
Lotty advanced, eager to meet him, as he entered.
" Oh, I am so glad you are come — so glad to welcome you
here!"
"And I, Charlotte, cannot say that I am glad to see you
here."
" Oh, don't sermonise. It was the only fault you ever had-
You mustn't preach to me; I don't want to grow wrinkled
before my time. Life is short — let it be merry. I can't tell
you how happy it made me to see you in the Park to-day. I
knew you in an instant : did you know me ?"
" Frankly, no, I did not. How could I ? I saw you last
a blooming, cheerful girl of sixteen, in a plain merino frock, a
simple little straw bonnet, giving your arm to an old man,
leading him to a village church."
" Ah ! Don't talk of that," said Charlotte.
"I find you," continued the visitor, "a lady of fashion,
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lady of fash
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Only a Music- Master. ' ;- 323
driving a grand equipage in the ring, paler-faced, not so happy
as when But, Charlotte, are you married ?"
" Married ! Bless your simplicity ! Who do you think would
have married the poor, penniless girl you described ?"
"Many an honest man."
"A clown, perhaps! But never mind. Let bygones be
bygones. I always liked you."
" Thank you for saying so ; but I do not quite understand
you — what your present position is."
"Oh, don't you! Better not, then; better not. Only re-
member I have money, I have influence, and I am your friend
for ever."
" Oh, Charlotte, a light breaks in upon me. You have no
right here. Leave this accursed place !"
" For where ? Who would receive me ? Would you ? "
"I could not"
"Say would not — that is the word."
" No, it is not, Charlotte. Were I free to "
" Oh, so you're married'?"
«No, but "
"Engaged, then?"
"Even so."
"And to some piece of propriety who'd think you highly
immoral to shake hands with me."
" No, to one who would hold out her own unstained hand
to lift up any fallen creature."
A momentary shadow of feeling crossed Charlotte's face.
"Let us talk no more," she said. " I have made my choice,
and I will abide by it. I have no one to blame but myself if
it ends ill. I am the victim of no villain, of no adverse cir-
cumstances. If I speak truly, I must tell you that I was lured
from the narrow path of virtue, where I walked as you say in
plain merino and a straw bonnet, by nothing weightier than
the display of goods in the draper's window at . So it
was that I lost my footing and strayed into the broad way of
silk gowns, hats, feathers, and destruction."
" Oh, Charlotte, sadder than I thought — far sadder ! Had
your feelings led you astray — your heart ! But vanity "
" Stop. Has vanity led me further than it has led the wife
and mother who, with all life's holiest ties about her,' bank-
rupts her husband, beggars her children, that she may flaunt
3-4. 5/* James* s Magazine.
in gay clothes ? Believe me, the love of dress is at the bottom
of every folly, every sin a woman commits. Btft let -us talk of
you. What are you in London for?"
"To seek employ ment"
" But I heard you were doing something."
"Yes ; but for many reasons I prefer finding work here"
" Let me help you— do !" And Charlotte drew near to her
visitor and laid her hand persuasively on his arm. " Let me
help you. Ah ! ,1 embarrass you. You would not take help
from me, then ?"
"Not under present circumstances; but I am gratefuHo
you for your intended kindness. Can I do nothing for you ?"
" Yes : come and see me sometimes."
"Is that all?"
"Yes — that's all. What else could you do for me ?"
" Persuade you, perhaps, to—"
" To walk through the world in cotton instead of silk ? No,
I can't do that— I really can't."
" Is tfyere any earthly thing would move you to your own
salvation ?"
"Yes, but I can't have that one thing."
" Lotty, nothing is impossible."
"Yes: it's impossible to bring back the old times wb^n I
led the old man to church, and you often walked beside us, 3.
boy then, with Do you remember the old cottage, and
the honeysuckle over the door, and "
" Yes, yes — I remember it all."
" I used to think then," said the girl mournfully, " I used to
think you would always be beside me to- — Ah ! never mind,
it's all gone by now ; but if you hadn't gone away — : — "
" The draper's shop would still have been there, Lotty !"
"Very true ; the draper's shop would stUl have, been there.".
"Why did you appoint midnight for me to come and see
you?"
"Oh, because Never mind : it was a whim or fancy.
What o'clock is it now ?"
"Nearly one."
" Farewell, then ; but we must meet again."
"If I can do you any good."
" If I Yes, you can do me good. Come tome sometimes,
,then. My life is a merry one, but it has sad moments."
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Only a Music- Master. 325
* God help you, poor girl J "
u Ah ! I'm past that. You good people don't know what real
misery is. Not that I'm miserable. I wouldn't have you go
away thinking that Goodbye. You shrink from my hand :
it will not hurt you !"
The young man's only reply was the look of deep com-
miseration he cast upon her as he left the room.
" Yes, there would be one way to save me," she murmured*
as she looked after his receding figure. " One way : to give
me the heart of an honest man. But that can never be. No,
there's but one thing for me — a short life and a merry one ;
then a grave with no headstone, and afterwards What !
tears! The first time since the old man died. Well, I'll
go to the Derby, and foiget all this nonsense. But somehow
I couldn't show hardness to Aim"
CHAPTER XIX.
A VISITOR TO LOTTY.
Lotty was yawning over a cup of chocolate at eleven o'clock.
A lady was announced. A lady's visit was a rare occurrence
with Lotty, and she testified a little vulgar surprise, though
she sat balancing a spoon on her finger-tip. A rustle of
thick silk on the staircase, an agitated cough, and the lady
entered. A beautiful woman, plainly but richly dressed, pale
as a newly-made corpse, she stood near the door, and leant on
a chair for support, while her dilating eye glared on the frail
woman before her.
It was the first time Miss Ormsby had ever voluntarily
come in contact with acknowledged, or even suspected vice.
Lotty knew her well by sight. She seemed to know her
well, but she sat still balancing her spoon on her finger.
u Ah ! you've come to see me," said she, with anjmpudent
mocking voice : " very kind of you."
u To see you ! " cried Horatia, in a tone of fierce passion—
"you / No, I came to say I have seen him with you in the
Park, have seen him enter this house. On your peril receive
him again !"
u You are mad, Miss Ormsby— mad." DigitiZed by Googje
3^6 5/. James's Magazine.
"You know me not, woman. My name is nothing to
you."
" I know you well, proud girl, — name, lineage, character.
I know your very soul."
" Has he dared to talk of me to you ? Has he dared defile
my name by "
"Yes, he was talking about you the other day; but don't
agitate yourself, pray. I'm not a tell-tale. I know plenty of
your fine friends : the gentlemen that bow low to you in the
ball-room, and stand behind you in your opera box, and ride
by your carriage in the Park/ talk pretty freely about you, I
can tell you. We always call you by your Christian name.
Besides, I had a maid once who came from your part of the
world. You'd better sit down — we can talk better."
Horatia grew whiter and whiter, but she still stood leaning
on the chair.
Lotty continued, " Her name was Bessie Sparks. She had
a misfortune, as country girls call it; she fancied the man
would marry her, but he wouldn't"
Here Lotty broke off for awhile, and fixed her eyes with an
impudent stare on Horatia. Presently she went on in a
malicious tone, —
" The girl was not as strong-minded as you and I. She
began to cry and be sorry, and wanted to turn good again,
and went humbly up to the Manor House to ask for work ;
but the virtuous Miss Ormsby was afraid of pollution, and
drove her away. She told her— not to ' go and sin no more,'
but to go to her own place. Well, Bessie went, with a little
baby hanging round her neck, and Well, I daresay you
know the rest. She gave up crying, and took to laughing
instead : much wiser, don't you think so ? "
" All this is nothing to me, woman," cried Horatia haughtily,
though every word of Lotty's passed through her like a sword-
stroke.
" But sometimes the crying fits came back, and in one of
them she wandered again to the old place, and sat down on
her old mother's grave one night. They said her mother
died of a ' broken heart/ I don't believe in people's hearts
breaking : do you ? Do you believe in ghosts ? Bessie
thought she saw a ghost as she sat on the grave. A black
figure glided out of a little cottage, past midnight, and into
igi ize y g
Bethune. 295
think that I am better than most girls," — coming and kneeling
close beside her ; " and I'm not."
" Never mind," consoles Aunt Sophia, her eyes dwelling
with a kind of pathetic twinkle on Beth's clouded face ; " have
patience. Do you remember what I used to teach you
Patience was, when you were a little girl ? "
" Wait a while," answers Beth ; and then they both laugh
at Beth's dismal tone.
CHAPTER V.
"You might just as well leave me alone altogether," Bethune
protests to Jack.
" Why, Beth ! you told me not to come so ofi^en, — that I
wasn't to take up so much of your time when you came to see
Miss Tozer, and that I could see plenty of you at home."
Jack's fair, good-looking face twitches first with amusementt
then with anger ; his wide brown eyes contract, his forehead
wrinkles till it looks quite shrivelled ; he pulls his short
moustache, and tosses his flaxen reddish hair, something
like a young obstreperous bull that will not be taken by the
horns.
" Beth, you look like an angel ; but you speak like "
" His satanic majesty, I suppose. I always had an idea,
Jack, you thought I was rather masculine."
" No, I was going to say an unreasonable woman. Beth,
you must listen to me ; I mean to show you that I can be
different, just as you can be different, at times, and talk in
such an exalted, mystical, transcendental " (rather hesitating
at the word) " strain, that I've almost regretted I wasn't a
professor, or a moralist, or something in that line."
"Jack," she exclaims hurriedly, ignoring his indignant
protest, " what makes you want to marry me ? What makes
one man select one particular woman from dozens of others ?
There's not much difference among us. Is it because I come
handiest ? "
"What is the good of picking feelings to pieces in that
terrible sifting way of yours ? If people went on sifting and
analysing as you do, I shouldn't think there would be-much t
VOL. I. igm^by
296 St. Ja7tie^s Magazine.
feeling left. Beth, leave some for me," he pleads, his voice
faltering reproachfully.
" I hope nothing serious has kept you away from us the last
few days," remarks Aunt Sophia, who enters the room just as
Bethune is making some sort of shy, petulant reply.
" No, nothing particular. I was obliged to stop away, I
assure you, much against my inclination," he returns rather
confusedly. And Aunt Sophia wishes she could be certain
whether he is definitely engaged to Bethune. She sighs:
how will it end ?
Bethune does not seem inclined to settle matters, and
every day they seem to her more involved and more doubtfuL
" Miss May," Robert Flint begins abruptly, one Saturday
afternoon, " how long do you intend to keep within the bounds
of a discreet neutrality ? "
" What do you mean, Mr. Flint ? "
"That I cannot read your meaning."
" I dislike being watched, and you know it/' she objects
rather gravely.
" There," he half laughs, " I am no further advanced. I
don't see any sign of what I want. I must wait/' he adds,
his voice relapsing into its normal harshness. "I have
waited before ; I shall wait again. Will you let me ? "
" No, no — don't wait," says Beth, piteously. " What," she
hesitates, " do you want me to do ? "
He changes his tone. " Let me be your knight-errant/'
" They no longer exist," returns Beth, following the change
in his tone : " except, perhaps, there may be a remnant of
them in* the shape of policemen who stand at the crossings to
assist poor forlorn helpless females over the roadway. I
sometimes look upon tlient as the worn-out husk of knight-
errantry."
"Very well; carry out your simile a little further, and let
me have you in charge."
She shakes her head silently, with a blush of embarrass-
ment, and rising in quick haste, goes over to Jack and Aunt
Sophia, who are talking in the bay window ; for she has over-
heard something about " flirting " from him, and her own name
coupled with it
Bethune is always sorry when she has vexed Jack,— a
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f
Bethune. 297
little glad and excited when she vexes Robert Flint. He
can conquer himself, she believes ; but Jack — well, Jack looks
as if somebody else had conquered him and he felt his
position.
* Indeed " Beth begins, half disposed to entreat with
him.
" Indeed," he interposes with an air of sad decision, " you
must be my wife ; whatever else happens, you must be that,
Beth, dear."
It is the last day but one before Bethune's departure.
The autumn air blows pure and good upon the Downs ; and
the inhabitants from far and near make it the summum bonum
of their walk. It is a fresh, yet warm morning, and the seats
dispersed on each side have many tenants — chiefly nursery-
maids, with their heavy-eyelidded charges close drawn-up in
the perambulators ; old men with halting, encumbered gait ;
shabby spinsters with eked-out garments ; a stray curate or
two making a cross cut to Dalston and enjoying the few
moments of purer air ; small boys flying kites, bigger ones
playing at football ; rows of cumbersome policemen waiting
to be drilled ; and farther off lazy-munching cows, with a wide
slumbrous look in their eyes, travel-stained in body after the
mire and dust and clay of their journey to the metropolis, and
possibly, as they ruminate, regarding their halting place as the
happy hunting ground reached at last.
Bethune looks at the various objects around her, and sighs.
She is tired, and moves towards a corner bench — a bench with
no occupier ; she does not fancy the nurserymaids and their
glib talk and unheeded charges. The last house in the street
immediately behind her is a publichouse — a corollary of street
corners. A man struggling with the effects of beer reels out,
and makes for the bench, with a vague idea, possibly, of
meditating as to the why and wherefore of his sensations.
Bethune, unaware of or mistaking%his approach, half-frightened,
with a little pink glow of alarm tinging her face and wiping
out the abstracted manner of the last few minutes, starts
up and walks on quickly.
" Oh ! Mr. Flint," she cries, her colour heightening still more
as she sees him coming towards her, " I am so glad to meet
you ; a man frightened me so."
298 St. Jameses Magazine.
He smiles as if her greeting is not to be taken too literally ;
it is spoken under pressure.
" What are you doing here, Miss May, by yourself? I have
never met you on the Downs alone before."
" I came out to have a good think ; and Aunt Sophia was
tired, and I was rather glad she didn't wish to come."
Her answer halts a little ; but they laugh at her candour.
He forces his next question upon her uneasily, almost as if he
were unwilling for an answer.
"I think you have fought against me a. good deal,— in
secret, perhaps, but still you have fought Is it t6 be against
me now, at the very end ? "
u Would you mind — much ? " she ventures, with the daring
and the sang-froid peculiar to the ingenue species of her sex,
and half inclined to foster the wish that he would carry her
by storm.
* So many things have gone over me," he answers, with a
deliberate soberness of tone and manner, as a rein upon her
thoughtlessness: "why not another?" And his eyes flash
sternly upon her.
" Mr. Flint," her eyelashes trembling a little under his stern,
eager gaze, but determined to put him to the rout if possible,
" do you remember what I said to you once about ' affinities ' ?
You believe in them, don't you ? "
" Yes, but not as women do, generally ; they look at them
from a sentimental point of view, not as necessary instruments
in the fulfilment of a law of Nature, and as a link in her chain
for the furtherance of the human race." His tone sounds
cold and grave. " Let us sit down here." He points to the
last seat on the side where they walk. " Now tell me, Miss
May, what does love mean to you ? "
He changes his tone, and it sets her more at ease with him.
She answers, after a moment's pause, readily, though slowly,
" I don't know that I ever thought it out quite, in my
Own mind. I don't care for the kind of love that gets tired, —
for which one has to wait a little while to renew itself again,
after a sort of intermittent fashion ; and I don't want a kind
to make you compare it with any other love."
" Why do you think of love like that ? Who made you
desecrate it by analysing it ? "
" I don't know; I fancy I have just noticed it here and there."
Digitized by LiOOQ IC
f
Bethune. 299
He does not reply. Bethune watches his face narrowly.
He is frowning, his thick dark eyebrows beetling till they
almost shut out his gaze. His tone is harsh and bitter when
he turns full round and addresses her, as she watches him
with an unconscipus look of wonderment.
" You were prejudiced against me beforehand ? "
" Indeed I was not : that is — everybody has an adverse sort
of feeling, you know, when they hear another person being
continually praised ; and of course it's worse sometimes, when
one hasn't seen the person, because you've nothing to lay hold
of and give back in return. And now, Mr. Flint " (her manner
brief and resolute), " I must go in. It is getting late ; Aunt
Sophia will miss me."
She rises, and he follows her.
*And I — you will never know how much /shall miss you ;
only my best thoughts could tell you that ; and best thoughts
can never be told by lip or pen." His tone is one of sad
parenthesis. "Am I to miss you always? Bethune May,
will you be my wife ? "
There is too much of entreaty in his voice, of foregone hope,
to win his wishes from Bethune ; she would rather have had
more of command, of deferential certainty. His tone makes
her involuntarily balance him in her own mind with Jack ; and
the thought of Jack, who keeps somewhat aloof, and preserves
his temper, with a certain mute air of winning in the long run,
trips against any possibility of a lifelong society with Mr.
Flint.
* No ! no ! " she cries, in nervous haste — her doubts re-
ceiving a sudden klaircissement "I have been promised
to Jack — Jack Sheppard — ever since I can remember. He
has been waiting for me so long ; I must go to him. Ah !
do not think me foolish — trifling, — I ought to have known it
before."
" Have you not," he says,* regret and disappointment and
something deeper still stirring him, as he silently lays aside
his hopes and reads the enlightenment written in her face as
she draws back from him, — "have you not just been making
a mental comparison of what my love would be beside Jack
Sheppard's, and found it suddenly in my disfavour? And did
you not just now tell me that you would not have the love
that made you compare it with others ? "
igi ize y g
300 St. yamefs Magazine.
" Yes/' says Bethune, anxiously vindicating herself and for-
getting to spare him, " but I did not say so if the comparison
was in favour of the one. Ah ! I am sorry," she cries, look-
ing up at his face with quick compunction. " What have I
done ? — what have I said ? "
" You have been cruel without being kind ; that is all, Miss
May. It happens so to some lives once, always — but never
again. There is good in everything, nevertheless. You gave
me something different from my daily round to think about.
And now," holding out his hand as they arrive at the door-
step, " goodbye — for you are going away to-morrow, I know.
I wish you a safe, happy journey — all through life.'*
Buried Seed.
By A. JOHNSON-BROWN.
LL we have failed," ye say. Ah no ! for ye,
The simple and the brave, with voices true,
To tell the poor world what it ought to do,
And stretching out to men strong hands, and
free,
To lift their life-look to eternity, —
All ye, so soon down-trampled from our view,
And silenced by the hooting crowd— ye knew
It was the world's great burying day, since He,
The Perfect, fell at morn. As then, with guile,
Men thrust the guileless still from out their way :
They know not what they do, — God knows the while
That, once more, bury goodness how they may,
'Twill rise upon the world in strength, and smile,
And we shall feel the sun of Easter-Day.
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A Chat about the I^ItF^Office.
By M. G. M.
Part II. (continued).
[N old letters we often see these words, "Haste,
haste, post haste — for thy life, for thy life, for
thy life !" The very letters bearing on them
such urgent instructions were constantly delayed,
opened by strange hands, and finally lost. No longer were
such things to be. A new era was at hand.
In the early part of 1784 there was much talk throughout
the country concerning a plan in contemplation for the safer
and swifter conveyance of letters ; a plan proposed by Mr.
Palmer, manager of the Bath and Bristol theatre.
Hitherto the letter-mails had been carried across the country,
facing highway -robbers and political spies merely in light
carts, or, worse still, on horseback ; the postmen being exposed
to sudden attacks and unlooked-for delays without any means
of defence. Now, it was rumoured, the letters and the carriers
of letters were to be well cared for ; and all should find that
they could confidently correspond with their distant friends
and receive replies within a reasonable time.
The letters, Mr. Palmer proposed, should be carried in
strong and well-guarded coaches made expressly for the pur-
pose, while the post-horses should be the finest England could
supply ; each coach should be accompanied by a man carrying
firearms, and the post-boys should be well equipped for any
dangers they might encounter : the coaches laden with the
London mails were all to start from London at the same hour
every evening, and their departure from the country should
be so regulated as to ensure as far as possible their simultaneous
arrival in London every morning.
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302 St. James's Magazine.
This plan, admirably as it was in harmony with the English
taste, even to every exact detail, and hailed as it was, accord-
ingly, with cheers from the multitude, met with opposition
from a large and powerful party, and angry discussions arose
in the wayside inns, at the clubs, at the dining-table, in the
drawing-room, and even in the streets; for there were in
those days, as now, many who set themselves resolutely to
oppose any novelty as fraught with evils and dangers innu-
merable." " Only sixteen hours allowed for the journey from
London to Bristol? Impossible! visionary nonsense! A
guard to each coach, and with firearms ? Absurd ! dangerous !
Why, when once a set of desperate fellows determine on a
robbery, resistance would bring murder ! And as for timing
tfce arrival of letters, that will fling the whole commercial
correspondence of the country into confusion ! And after
all,* one or two hunting squires would add, "why should the
mails be the swiftest riding in all the country ? "
The above is a small selection, merely, from the torrent of
words and angry storm of complaint on record ; for the whole
country was in a ferment either of enthusiasm in favour of or
of rage against the new plan. Meanwhile Mr. Palmer, intent
on gaining his point, submitted his scheme to the Premier.
William Pitt, with his usual sagacity, at once comprehended that
it was both excellent and practicable: accordingly the country
was, after a few more exclamations from the malcontents,
brought to the decision that Mr. Palmer's mail-coach theory
should be adopted ; and Mr. Palmer was installed at the Post
Office as Controller-General, which promotion enabled him to
perfect all arrangements, and the first mail-coach left London
for Bristol on the evening of August 4, 1784.
The era of mail-coaches lasted for about half a century ;
these safely-guarded and well-appointed vehicles increasing
in number till within two years of their eclipse by the railway,
when they had mounted to as many as twenty-seven, which
started from the General Post Office and Piccadilly every
evening. " A short time before the hour of starting, the mail-
coaches arrived in the yard around the Post Office, from their
respective inns, with the passengers already in their places.
Through the iron railings, by the light of innumerable lamps,
the public could see the process of packing the mail-bags.
It was really a fine sight to see twenty of these vehicles
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A Chat about the Post Office. 303
drawn up, each occupying the same station night after night ;
the horses fine and spirited animals ; the harness unexception-
ably neat, and the coachmen and guards wearing the king's
livery.
• * • • •
" As the clock struck eight, the Post Office porters dragged
out huge bags, of which the guards of the different mails took
charge. In a few minutes each coach, one by one, passed out
of the yard, and the sound of the guard's horn became lost in
the noise of the streets." About six of the mail-coaches
started from the western end of Piccadilly, the bags for their
mails being conveyed in light carts under the care of guards*
The starting of these was a sight for the people of the West
End. At about twenty minutes past eight the mail-carts
drove up at great speed, the guards' horns warning passengers
to make way ; the bags were transported to the mail-coaches,
the bugles sounded, and each coach successively took its
departure.
So spirited was the mail-coach travelling, that we find
English gentlemen of that period declaring "five years of
life " to be " worth giving up " for the privilege of an out-
side place on a mail-coach. Crowds would stand all along the
line of the mail-coach route from London, to see it dashing
past, and to catch the earliest news, especially during the
occurrence of stirring events. The result of Queen Caroline's
trial was shouted to the waiting crowds from the top of the
mail-coach as it fled swiftly through tfie country roads.
Such a brilliant reputation had the post-horses, that all the
noblemen in England greatly desired their favourite steeds
to make at least one journey with, the letter-mail. A sight
indeed after the hearts of the English was that of the mail-
coach, with horses whose strength, celerity, and spirit were
renowned throughout Europe, guards powerful and trusty,
and the whole enlivened by the sound of the post-horn.
The following verdict concerning stage-coaches, given by
a gentleman of the old school, will show how harshly all
npvelties of travelling were regarded by those who fondly
clung to the old state of things : " This invention of stage-
coaches is mischievous to the public, prejudicial to trade, and
destructive to lands. Those who travel in those coaches
contract an idle habit of body, become weary and listless
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304 St. James's Magazine.
when they have rode a few miles, and are unable to travel on
horseback, and not able to endure frost, snow, or rain, or to
lodge in the fields?
Fifty years having rolled by, the music of the post-horn
became rare and faint, till it was quite silenced by the shrill
and deafening scream of the railway engine : when letters
flew across the country as if scattered broadcast by a
magician's wand. At this the young rejoiced ; but the aged,
whose eyes were dim, and to whom the writing and reading
of letters had become a weariness, sighed as they remembered
the mail-coach, and the "postman's clanging horn," now
passed away for ever.
The marvellous speed of the railway-post was not the only
improvement that had been brought about. In 1837, the late
Sir Rowland Hill proposed the plan of the penny postage, which
at the beginning met with as much opposition as that of the
mail-coaches ; this, not from any portion of the general public,
but from the Post Office officials. Lord Lichfield, then Post-
master-General, said of it in the House of Lords, " Of all the
wild and visionary schemes of which I have ever heard, it is
the most extravagant ! If the anticipated increase of letters,"
he added, " should be realised, the mails will have to carry
twelve times as much in weight, and therefore the charge for
transmission, instead of £10,000 as now, must be twelve times
that amount : the walls of the Post Office would burst : the
whole area on which the building stands would not be large
enough to receive the clerks and the letters ! "
On the other hand, we find the Duke of Wellington
speaking in its favour : " With reference," said the Duke, " to
the adoption of any particular plan, I am disposed to admit
that that which we call Mr. Rowland Hill's plan, if it can be
adopted exactly as was proposed, of all the plans is that which
is most likely to succeed."
Notwithstanding the continued opposition of the Post Office
functionaries, petitions in favour of penny postage poured in
from all parts of England, showing so clearly the feeling of
the country, that after due consideration of the possible
results of such a grand move, the Penny Post became a law
of the land on August 17, 1839, Rowland Hill being
established at a new but temporary office under the Treasury.
The Penny Post had been attempted with indifferent success
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A Chat about the Post Office. 305
nearly two centuries before the times of Rowland Hill. " The
Penny Post," writes that delightful gossip Aubrey, " was set
up on our Lady Day (being Friday, 1680, A.D.), — a most
ingenious and most useful project, invented by Mr. Robert
Murray first, and then Mr. Dockwra joined with him. The Duke
of York (afterwards James II.) seized on it in 1682. Mr.
Murray was a citizen of London, a milliner of the Company
of Clothworkers ; his father a Scotchman, his mother English ;
born in the Strand, December 12, 1633." Here Aubrey
makes most of Robert Murray; but Dockwra is more
generally known than Murray in connection with the first
attempt at penny postage : Stow mentions that Dockwra had
six offices, in the windows of which were placed large placards
bearing the words " Penny Post Letters taken in here." " Letter-
carriers," Stow adds, " gather them every hour, and take them
to the grand office in their respective districts." In the reign
of William III. and Mary, Dockwra was made Postmaster-
General, in consideration of the services he had rendered and
the large sums of money he had spent in the furtherance of
his Penny Post plans for the good of his country. This office
he held for seven years, losing it for alleged misconduct ; for
he it was of whom it was said that he u stopped letters under
spetious pretences, to the injury of many." He lived on till
he was nearly a hundred years old ; and at this venerable age,
being in poverty, he petitioned Queen Anne for an annuity.
"Your petitioner," he wrote, "prostrates himself at your
Majesty's feet ; the throne being the refuge of the oppressed
subject, and of unhappy sufferers ; never believing that your
Majesty's incomparable goodness and entirely English heart,
can let a faithful English subject be forgot, and his family
languish in ruin, merely for doing good to his country ; but
that your petitioner shall find speedy redress from so admirable
a Queen."
In these days of telegrams, post-office savings-banks, money-
orders, post-cards, halfpenny stamps, wrappers, registered
letters, and other improvements that have followed upon the
railways and the Penny Post, rendering all kinds of commu-
nication so easy and inexpensive as to be within the reach of
rich and poor, we are apt to forget the daily cares and grave
responsibilities hidden within that massive building in the
heart of our great city, — to realise which we require to be
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306 Sf. James's Magazine.
admitted into the midst of such scenes as that watched by
Pliny Miles on the foggy evening in November 1854. In the
absence of such an opportunity, the following fragments of
information gathered from the Postmaster-General's Report
for 1874, may assist us to consider the large amount of grati-
tude due from us to those indefatigable workers who spend
day after day within the walls of the General Post Office.
Valentines. — " A large number of valentines still continue
to be sent every year through the post ; and some idea of the
magnitude of the extra work thereby thrown upon the depart-
ment may be gathered from the fact that on the eve of last
St Valentine's Day no fewer than 306 extra mail-bags, each
three feet long and two feet wide, were brought into requisition
at the chief office alone."
Telegrams. — " On one occasion, when an unusual number of
events of interest were reported from various parts of the
country, upwards of 300,000 words of news, or about 150
columns of the Times, were transmitted from the Central
Telegraph Office in London in one night. The total number
of words telegraphed in 1873 was 214,000,000."
Returned Letter Office. — " The number of letters which,
owing to wrong addresses and other causes, were sent to the
Returned Letter Office last year (1873) was rather more than
4,000,000, the greater number of them being either re-issued
to correct addresses, or returned to their owners."
Unaddressed Letters. — " The number of letters posted with- '
out any address was unusually large in 1873 — v*z«> about
187,000 ; nearly 500 of which contained cash, cheques, or bills
of exchange, of an aggregate value of more than £ 13,000."
Postage Stamps. — "Nearly 60,000 postage stamps were
found loose in the different post-offices, most of them having
dropped off from being insecurely attached."
Blind Letter Office. — This modern and honest form of the :
mysterious old Deciphering Office is for the deciphering of
illegible, misspelt, misdirected, or insufficiently addressed
letters, of which, from many examples given in the Report, we
select a few : —
1. "Uncle John, Hopposite the Church, London, Hing-
land."
2. " Mrs. Prince Albert, Balmory Castle, Scotland."
3. " Miss Queen Victoria of England."
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A Chat about the Post Office. 307
4. w Ann, Oileywhite, Amshire." (Deciphered : Isle of
Wight, Hampshire.) .
5. u Coneyachlunetick a siliam." (Deciphered : G&lney
Hatch Lunatic Asylum.)
6. w Obern yeunen." (Deciphered : Holborn Union.)
The humbler Post Office Officials. — The Postmaster, after
expressing a hope* that " compulsory education " may bring
about an improvement, gives us some specimens of written
replies to customary questions received from candidates for
the humbler appointments at the Post Office: they were
required to answer concerning the diseases prevalent in their
families : —
1. u Father had sunstroke, and I caught it of him."
2. " Sister died of compulsion."
3. " My little brother died of some funny name."
4. w A great white cat drawed my sister's breath, and she
died of it:'
5. "Aperplexity."
6. " I caught Tiber fever in the Hackney Road."
7. " Burralger in the head."
8. " Shortness of breadth."
9. " Indigestion of the lungs."
10. "Sister was consumpted; but now she's quite well
again."
As we look through these annual Reports, we cannot fail to
note the admirable forbearance of the Post Office officials ; or
perhaps we ought to say, of the spirit in which the rules have
been framed. All is told without reproach. Every effort is
made to remedy countless mistakes, while the offenders
scarcely suffer their just amount of penalty. While reading
the calm statements concerning errors which might easily
have been avoided, and which have caused a vast amount of
trouble, we feel something like shame at remembering how
carelessly many of us omit to observe the post-office rules
which have been arranged for our comfort " Great mistakes
occur," we are informed, " as to the postage of newspapers :
these mistakes might easily be avoided," the Postmaster-
General patiently adds, " by a reference to the British Postal
Guide."
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308
SL James's Magazine.
In the following works, not to mention others to which we
have been indebted in the compilation of the above facts, may
be found fuller information concerning the history of the
British Post Office than we are able to give in these frag-
mentary papers : —
i. " Her Majesty's Mails ; " by William Lewin. 2. u Histoire
de la Poste ; " by Arthur de Rothschild (Baron). 3. " Descrip-
tive Essays ; " by Sir Francis Head. (One Essay on the Post)
41 Few subjects," writes Pliny Miles, " should give more
encouragement for steady perseverance, to the practical re-
former in the field of social science, than that of the postal
history. What has been achieved with great toil and diffi-
culty, and after long delay, in one country, speedily works
its way into other countries, and produces results of world-
wide magnitude.0
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Only a Music-Master,
By FANNY AIKIN-KORTRIGHT,
AUTHOR OF "ANNE SHERWOOD," "HE THAT OVERCOMETH," ETC.
CHAPTER XVI.
MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS.
BRILLIANT " at home " at Lady Dynevor's. It
was Horatia's first large party. She was re-
splendent in beauty and adornment, and was
universally admired; though rather from a distance,
for her haughty air forbade familiar approach. How proud
her father was of her, as she leant on his arm ! how he strained
his ear to catch the murmured whispers that greeted their
passage through the crowd ! At the further end of the room
stood a very distinguished-looking man, leaning on the back
of a lady's chair, and occasionally conversing with her in too
low a tone to reach the ears of those around. Horatia thought
she had never seen so dignified a countenance or mien. He
was the true type of the old noble in chivalrous times, like
some one she had seen or dreamt of long ago — for the last few
months seemed to her an entire life, quite apart from her
previous existence. Yes, like some one she had seen before ;
only refined, beautified, ennobled, as a man of heart always
grows under the influence of a generous, disinterested passion.
Horatia drew near, and recognised Lord Selmore — recognised
him, not only as himself, but recognised him as the realisation
of her old proud ideal, now for ever dashed to earth by her
own rash hand. He raised his head, and for a moment their
eyes met. In that brief glance Horatia read that she had
been, not the choice of his will, his reason, his judgment, but
literally and truly the cherished madness of his heart ; and
the lovely woman over whom he was bending with such respect
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3io Si. James* s Magazine.
/""■ * *
and attention held the place that might have been hers, and
Was — what had once been the giddy girl, Ellen Grantley —
now a quiet, gentle woman, whose animation had departed,
but who looked through eyes that would tell a sad heart-
history to those who could read from their own self-knowledge.
A momentary cloud obscured Horatia's brow ; it was not
jealousy, it was something worse— er^vy, that Ellen should
take the place she might have occupied, that she should walk
through life beside that noble man, sharing the splendours of
his rank and fortune, winning the esteem and respect, if not
the passionate devotion, of a manly heart, — and she had done
it all.
Horatia heard Lord Selmore say, u I must leave you, dear
Ellen ; I have promised my friends and myself to be in the
House to-night. We shall have an important debate."
" Shall you, my lord," said Horatia, advancing on her
father's arm, — " shall you speak ? Ah ! how do you do, Ellen ?
I scarcely recognised you, you are so altered. I suppose you
have been ill ? " She just touched her friend's fingers with
the cold white kid on her own, then repeated, " Shall you
speak, my lord ? "
" Yes, a few words ; nothing of moment.*
" Ah ! I should greatly like to hear you."
il You are very kind to say so. I scarcely thought you
would take an interest in politics, Miss Ormsby."
44 The deepest interest in politics, I assure you — an interest
in everything that speaks of energetic action."
" Perhaps Mr. Ormsby would "
" Ah ! yes. Papa, you must take me to the House the very
next time there is an interesting debate."
" I had better take you to the opera, my dear."
" Oh no, papa. • Too much of music hast thou, poor Ophelia.'
Spare me more music at present."
Ellen raised her eyes with a pitiful look of inquiry to
Horatia's face. Her heart was beating, her eyes full of tears.
Mr. Ormsby had turned to speak a few words with Lord
Selmore. Horatia would not understand Ellen. She saw
her wistful gaze implied a question about Valerio, and under
her perfectly calm exterior the mere suspicion that Ellen was
still interested in him lit a fierce flame of jealousy.
Presently Ellen found the opportunity to whisper :
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Only a Music- Master. 327
the churchyard. It was nearly one in the morning ; but the
lady was not alone — there was a handsome young man beside
her ; his arm was round her, for fear she should stumble ; and
as the lovers, full of life, passed over the sleeping dead, the
lady lifted her head, and Bessie saw — Miss Ormsby ! "
"Wretch !" cried Horatia ; "no one will believe either her
or you."
" Yes ; he believes it all, for he knows it. Who could know
it better?"
Horatia pressed her hand on her forehead, and stood a
moment irresolute — only a moment.
" When does Valerio come here again ? " she asked delibe-
rately.
"WhoisValerio?"
'" Tut, woman ! do you pretend not to know him ? "
" Well, I have rather a large acquaintance ; but that's not
one of my friends' names. "
"Of course money will buy you," said Horatia suddenly;
" or money's worth ? "
" That depends."
" I have heard that such as you love jewels."
" Such as us," corrected Lotty.
" If I give you a beautiful diamond, you will swear to do
something for me, and never never, to mention my name ? "
" Perhaps I will."
" And mark me," continued Horatia: " he is poor, he is very
poor. He can give you nothing — nothing, remember. I am
not rich, but I have some jewels. Swear that you will never
see him again, and "
" See him ! I'm sure he might go to Lapland for me ! I
know he's poor, but he wasn't always so : he had fourteen
thousand a-year once. That was before I knew him ; even
then he had plenty. I helped him to spend it ; he gave me
this house."
" Gave you this house ! " repeated Horatia.
" Of course he did ; but he has fooled all his money away.
He wants to marry you to get provided for."
" Marry me ! He shall find his error," cried Horatia. "And
you — swear to me you don't care for him, and this ring is
yours." She held out her hand with a beautiful diamond
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VOL. I, 23
328 St. James's Magazine.
" Oh, I'll swear that or. anything else you like. What a
pretty ring ! He wanted me to go to France with him."
"With him >n
u Yes. He'd have married you, got out of you what he
could, and then gone off with me. But don't be afraid ; I
don't care a fig for his baby face. You may have him all to
yourself."
" Mine ! Mine in hate or love," muttered Horatia. u And
that woman ? " she said aloud.
" Oh, Bessie ? Well, you needn't worry about her. She's
going to emigrate — perhaps has done it already, for what I
know."
"So I've spoiled Bernal's marriage for him," said Lotty,
as Horatia left the house. " If he comes here again, I'll "
CHAPTER XX.
HENRY TEMPLE TO ITHAMA.
" MY very dear Ithama,— You sever received a long letter
in your life, you told me once, and I never wrote one ! I fear
neither of us will have occasion to alter our assertion in this
respect, for we are not made for romance. I own the truth
to you, my dearest — that I think much more of the warm
beating heart in your bosom than of your beaux yeux; and
when your image rises before me in the moonlight hour, and
I fancy you star-gazing in your father's garden, my first care
is usually — 'Has Ithama wrapped herself up warmly this
evening, for it is chilly, damp, and Well, I fear she is rather
given to wear thin shoes ! '
" You see I am incorrigibly matter-of-fact I never threw
myself on my knees to you, never kissed your hand ; but I love
you, Ithama, I love you as my own soul, and if needs be, in
coming years I will labour in a coal-mine for you. Still, I hope
this necessity may not arise, as I quite prefer daylight and
above-ground work to subterranean adventures.
" But a truce to protestations. You know me, and will not
doubt me, and I for my part promise that when busy fancy
conjures up the poor dear fat rector's image, ogling you and
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Only a Music-Master. 329
devouring fat oysters at your father's supper-table, I will
think of him with charitable candour, and wish him nothing
worse than to be translated to an excellent living at Coventry
or its near neighbourhood ; but in truth I am not jealous now,
Ithama, and you assure me you don't know the meaning of
the word.
"You wish me to tell you if you are my first love. I will
answer you frankly — I really think you are ; still I must con-
fess that when I was a boy, quite a boy, I had a little tendresse
for a young girl who was nearly my own age. She was not
pretty, but affectionate, lively, and amusing. I never told her
of my affection ; perhaps she divined it, perhaps not. But we
parted ; and when we met again, Ithama, I thanked God that
I had learned to see her with different eyes to those of my
earlier youth.
" Then," you must secondly know what sort of woman I most
admire. Truly, one whose open countenance is thfe index of
a pure, honourable, unselfish soul — one whose modest eye
tells more of affection than of passion, whose simple attire
speaks of taste but of the absence of coquetry and vanity. I
do not say that I set no value on a fair face, but every face to
me is fair which expresses modesty and sensibility. I never
cared for what are called perfect beauties. They are seldom
beauties to me at all. The light within the lamp rarely shows
forth the external fairness to advantage.
"To-day I have seen one of the loveliest creatures con-
ceivable. I ; acknowledge to you that I gazed on her with
pleasure and surprise. I even followed her some little distance,
that I might see the beautiful picture again. But, Ithama, I
thought there was a want there. Behind the beautiful mask
there was, if I mistake not, an absence of heart and fine
feeling, and in every lineament was traceable the pride of
Lucifer. Do you know, Ithama, I thanked God in my heart
that the face that would be opposite to me, I trust for many
happy years, by my own fireside — the face that will bend
over mine to receive my last breath, I hope — was so different !
"Well, I must now come to the pith of my letter, which is
this. I have now been one week in London, and have
sought diligently for employment. After presenting my
letters of introduction, I have some hope of obtaining a post
in a private bank ; the emolument will be small, but there is
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00^-
SA y<ime£s Magazine.
some hope of an increase in the salary presently. Hope the
best, dearest ; see my mother when you can, let her miss me
as little as possible — and love me a little in return for my
great love to you,
" I thought my letter finished, but the clock strikes and
reminds me that I have yet an hour before post-time. How
can I employ it better than by telling you that 'all those
swearings will I overswear and all those swearings keep ! ' I
am hopeful, Ithama, very hopeful when I look forward. The
very courage you showed at our parting, dearest, has animated
me to exertion. I suppose were we orthodox lovers, we should
have protested it was impossible to live apart for a little while,
in order that we might eventually share each other's joys and
sorrows for life. I suppose I ought to feel rather hurt that
you bid me go and God-speed. But I thanked you in my
heart for your example. Oh, Ithama, how was I struck with
the noble self-sacrificing spirit of my mother — my more than
mother ! The moment she was convinced that my interests
might be advanced by a separation, she not only consented
that I should leave her, but urged my departure. What do I
not owe to her ! What claim had I, have I, on her tenderness ?
Yet what has she not done for me ! Oh, Ithama, help me to
pay her lavish bounty by a large return of affection and devo-
tion. I know you will be a true daughter to her; if you were
not, my love for you would cool — nay, it would die, for I have
loved you chiefly for your heart.
" But a truce to sentiment. You have never been in this great
Babel, I think, and I am not at all familiar with it. It is the
height of what is called the season. The business of so many
people's lives here seems pleasure. I am only a spectator, and
of course can best judge by externals ; but none of these
pleasure-seekers seem happy: the women look jaded to
death.
" I go to the Park sometimes, and see the fashionables roll
by in their luxurious carriages. Some of them look positively
wretched — the women not least. I was silly enough to go
down to the opera-house to see the company enter, as I could
not afford to go in and see the show and hear the sweet
sounds for which you know I have a great taste. The same
ennuyt weary look on many faces that otherwise might have
been fair ! My only extravagance has been to pay a visit to
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Only a Music-Master. 33 1
the pit of the theatre, to witness a revival of the world's
wonder, 'the mighty master of the soul/ If ever mortal
man approached the condition of the gods, it was that one,
who should have been named, as a lesser genius was, ' the
only one/ How he must have looked down from the throne
of his solitary kingship upon lesser mortals — not despising
them, surely, but with a large-hearted compassion, perhaps an
awful sense, too, of the great loneliness that must have sur-
rounded his genius! They talk of wife and children and
companions for Shakspeare ! I don't believe he had any
of all this. Can you fancy a golden eagle consorting with a
brood of humming-birds ? No ; the great, great mind must
have stood alone — alone as Moses must have stood ever after
he had talked with the Divinity in the burning bush. He
must have looked on his mighty creations as the giant archi-
tects contemplated the vast works they reared in the ancient
world — works that men look on with wonder, but never imagine
they could imitate.
" I am afraid the theatre will be my stumbling-block and
rock of offence. When you write, preach to me against self-
indulgence, Ithama, lest, instead of economising my little
surplus money, I should pour it lavishly into the exchequer of
those ' careless dogs the players/ as they used to call them.
But I hear that these players are not what they were. Instead
of spendthrifts and vagabonds, they are gentlemen of breed-
ing and substance, living in suburban villas, driving little
broughams, and eschewing threadbare coats. They say there
are still plenty of the latter about town on the shoulders of
men of genius. Thank God I am not one of them ! I should
be afraid to have great gifts, lest they should cut me off from
human sympathy. I could better wear the shabby coat of a
poor clerk than the robe of a poor great man ! M
( To be continued. )
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Recent Political Agitation.
By EDMUND GAISFORD.
*T is by no means unusual for nations, like indivi-
duals, to forget the teaching of a past experience.
When a dangerous crisis has been tided over,
either by chance or action, the human mind is
but too prone to obliterate the reminiscence by turning to
the next and nearest object of interest ; and in this busy age
there is never wanting some novelty. But this course is not
the one dictated by sound sense, and the misery of many a
generation might be spared by a little more reflection and
circumspection on the part of those whose past and present
conduct is the foundation of the welfare of the future. The
recent events in the east of Europe, and our home action
therein, call for serious comment from all persons anxious
concerning the prospects of the nation. It would be invidious
to blame Her Majesty's Ministers for our participation in that
absurd, abortive attempt to coerce a great and free people to
the will of its hereditary enemy, which terminated so happily
for the welfare of Europe. There can be no question but
that Turkey has shown herself to be a nation not unworthy
of the respect and assistance of her neighbours ; and for her
future good conduct the peril she has passed through ought
to be a sufficient guarantee. But with the effect of the
Conference, and its abrupt termination, upon the Turkey of
the present and the future we have not to deal. It behoves
us for a little while at least to look at home, and to see how
far the actions and words of a large portion of the community
were justifiable ; we do not ask a judgment by results only.
The most proper course of action may often terminate in
failure through nobody's fault, and we hardly required
Shakspeare to tell us that " It is not in mortals to command
success " ; but let us ask whether we have done our best to
deserve it.
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Recent Political Agitation. \ 333
Nothing is easier than to stir up a populace like our ejwn.
The public mind is so easily influenced by the motions .of V
one or two men whom it has been accustomed to look upon
as leaders, that a few words upon any subject are sufficient
to wake an echo through the length and breadth of the land.
Those who lead the van are, as a rule, fully entitled to the
respect they command, but their influence is so great that we
must watch very narrowly to see whether it be always used
for good. In mentioning the name of Mr. Gladstone it is
not our intention to level any personalities at him ; but when
he preached a new crusade he took upon himself the re-
sponsibility of a political agitation, and as the leader of
that movement he and his admirers must abide the conse-
quences. The pen is a terrible weapon ; but far more mischief
may be done by intemperate words uttered, than written,
although the effect of the former, if they lead not to action,
passes away the sooner : but then how shall we know whether
these words will lead to action or not ? When Mr. Gladstone
wrote his celebrated anti-human pamphlet he was safe to
know that his work would be followed by a host of imitators,
critics, detractors, admirers and others, — that his words would
be well weighed, well sifted, and, most important of all, well
answered, — that numberless writers, little beneath him in
power, would find out the flaws in his work and take care to
reduce to a minimum the mischief he had occasioned ; and
we are not at all sure that a vigorous writer has not some
justification in taking his stand on the highest possible ground
when his literary position secures the closest criticism.
But to write is one thing, to speak another. Few men act
upon what they read without stopping to think whether it be
right or wrong. At a political meeting this is altogether dif-
ferent. Men are carried away by an enthusiasm which they
cannot account for, much less control ; moreover, when plat-
form speeches are reproduced in the newspapers they preserve
the ring of the speaker's voice about them, and part of the
enthusiasm with which he inspired his hearers still lingers
around his words. Upon what men hear they are prepared
to act ; they take no time to reason ; they fall in readily
enough with the conclusion of the speaker, and they rush
forth prepared to second every word that he has uttered.
The contagion of platform eloquence spreads like lightning.
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334 St. Janufs Magazine.
There are in every town, in every village, men who can talk,
and who are only too glad to have a good subject to talk
about ; and he indeed must be a poor orator who cannot
muster a crowd of listeners when he announces his intention
to address them on a sensational subject. The whole face of
the country at such a time becomes covered, as it were, with
a network of water pipes with little fountains attached in the
principal towns, and once the pressure is turned on they all
begin to play. Each place is flooded Math the same kind, if
a different quality of talk — taller or shorter as the case may
be ; and the excitement in the smaller places only subsides
when the pressure from head-quarters ceases.
Thus it was with the late political agitation over the
Bulgarian atrocities. Mr. Gladstone sounded the note of
alarm, in his pamphlet, and subsequently at Greenwich. The
cry was taken up. No one stopped to consider the effect which
— what is popularly supposed to be, and what in Continental
circles goes for — the Voice of England would have upon the
situation in the East. It was sufficient that something wrong
had been done, it was sufficient that newspaper correspond-
ents transmitted sensational details of the horrors of warfare,
that their reports were vivified by the eloquence of our best
orators, and that the most glowing language described the
atrocities of the Turks. Somebody had done something which
ought to be denounced. Never mind who the somebody was,
and no matter who would suffer by the denunciation, it must
be made. England must show that she abhorred and was
prepared to condemn the perpetration of outrages upon
women and children. England must rouse herself as one
man, and thunder forth from platform and pulpit, from St.
James's Hall and Blackheath, that the conduct of the Turkish
soldiers in Roumelia was worthy of the fiercest condemnation,
and that every man, woman, and child throughout the length
and breadth of the Empire was prepared to endorse these
sentiments. And the cry went forth, and a note of alarm
waxed loud. The voice was not only heard on our own
shores, but the agitation which swept like a storm-wave over
England was felt and known throughout the world. Neither
did it subside until it had been heard everywhere.
Now let us turn from what the English people, led by Mr.
Gladstone and his party, then talked about, to what they have
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Recent Political Agitation. 335
since done — to what they really ever intended to do. It must
be perfectly evident to every one who considers calmly and
rationally the tone and feeling of the country at the present
moment, that apart from the enthusiasm which got the better
of judgment, the agitation was due to two causes, and to two
causes alone : Religious hatred of the Turks, Jealousy of the
Russians. If it had so happened that the Christian inhabitants
of Bulgaria had been the aggressors, had they tortured and put
to death a few Jews, or had they risen in arms, massacred
their Turkish brethren, and, making common cause with the
Servians and Montenegrins, threatened to assist in the im-
pending dismemberment of the Turkish Empire, a few feeble
humanitarian protests might have been entered here and
there, a voice might have been raised crying out against the
bloodshed consequent upon an insurrectionary movement, but
Mr. Gladstone's inkstand would have remained full, and though
Lady Strangford's benevolence might have been moved on
behalf of the sufferers, no fierce political meetings would
have disturbed the serene atmosphere of our autumnal sky.
We have only space here to refer to this religious question.
It is a hard thing to have to denounce sectarian prejudice in
this advanced age ; it is hard to have to tell enlightened
minds again and again that suffering man deserves sympathy
because he is man, and not on account of the way in which
he worships the God of his fathers ; but that prejudice still is
rampant the recent political agitation has proved, and it is
vain to shut our eyes to the truth.
With the Russian question those who consider the history
of the past few months ought to deal more fully. It is
impossible to undo the mischief that has been accomplished.
It was not the attitude of England that kept the Russians
from marching to Constantinople. It was not the presence
of our fleet in Besika Bay, or the threatening attitude of Lord
Beaconsfield, standing nobly to his policy in spite of the stormy
atmosphere around him, that guarded the Turk from the ag-
gression of his hereditary enemy. It was no act or sentiment
of our people that checked Russian ambition ; for all Europe
felt doubtful whether, in the event of a war, we should take any
part in it at all, — while certainly the prevailing home opinion, at
least among the agitators, was that the Turk was doomed, and
that we could not draw the sword again on behalf of "the one
& Digitized by LnOOgie
336 S/. James's Magazine.
anti-human specimen of humanity." If the want of money,
the sinews of war, if the bold attitude of Turkey and the
noble and patriotic sentiment of all classes of the Ottoman
subjects, compelled the Czar and his ministers to hesitate
before attacking a desperate foe, England can claim no credit,
•ave through the Ministry whdm in the hour of excitement
the population distrusted, for the result. It is true that common
•ense has soon reasserted its sway, and we are now prepared
to look upon the Eastern question from a self-interested point
of view. We have forgotten the ruined Bulgarian homes, the
murdered women and the impaled men. We have had a
Conference, and been represented therein by an able pleni-
potentiary ; we have also had a Queen's speech and many
debates on the subject, but our present state is not a penitent
one, and we have yet to learn the lesson of the future from the
teaching of the past. When we embarked upon the stormy
waters of political agitation, we took no heed of consequences.
The outcry of the moment was the only thing we considered,
and the result was this : that we virtually pledged ourselves
as men to put it out of the power of the Ottoman Empire to
ever again treat any of its subjects in the way that it had
recently behaved towards the inhabitants of the disturbed
provinces. It may be that we were justified in agitating for
such a pledge to be given, but are we now in any way pre-
paring to redeem it ? On the contrary, we have been present
at a Conference that has failed through the conduct of the
nation for which we sought to legislate. We have been prac-
tically kicked out of Turkey without having done anything to
compel the Turks to retrieve the past or promise amendment
for the future ; and nothing but the want of credulity on the
part of the public remains to prevent the financiers of the new
generation assisting the Ottoman Empire to enter upon a
second course of inflation, ending in a more terrible bankruptcy.
We have secured no guarantees for the improvement of the
condition of the subjects of the Porte ; terms of peace will be
ratified between the rebels and their sovereign without our
wishes being consulted; and although doubtless the benefit
of our wise suggestions will accrue in some way or other to
our ancient protfgies, such will not be adopted for fear of our
dissatisfaction.
Thus, as regards practical accomplishments the recent
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Recent Political Agitation. 337
political agitation has wholly failed, and that all the evil
which might have resulted from it has not taken place is due
to the mercy of Providence and the forbearance of Russia,
aided by the patriotic attitude of the subjects of the Ottoman
Empire, rather than to our conduct. But when, if ever, the
day shall come in which the Russian, throwing off his
cloak and grasping his iron weapons of war, shall descend
like the eagle on his prey, to carry desolation through
Turkey, and add the ancient glories of the city of Con-
stantine to the realm of Peter the Great, — if then Mr. Glad-
stone's party and the political agitators of 1876 shall be in
power at the head of the British nation, let he and his party,
let every man who consented to listen to the denunciation of
the misrule of the Porte, consider well before giving assistance
to the race then condemned, or drawing the sword on behalf
of that people whose presence as a Continental nation was •
openly and publicly declared to be a disgrace to Europe*
But if, as we all hope, under God's blessing war shall be
avoided, do not let us on that account overlook our conduct, or
think that because we have escaped a false position, or that
chance has redeemed us from the disgrace of being compelled
to fight side by side with those we have condemned as anti-
human and unworthy to live beneath the shadow of the
European sky, we have on that account nothing with which
to reproach ourselves, or no occasion to condemn with heart-
felt censure the movements, speeches, and demonstrations
during the Recent Political Agitation.
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Valentine Humfrey's Trust.
a fefeetci) fn fefjc Chapter**
By NORA NEVILLE.
CHAPTER III.
RETRIBUTION.
jRRIVED at Crouch Dell, the spot selected for our
picnic, we alight and pair off. The Rev. Brown
offers his arm to Mrs. Humfrey, and invites Miss
Macdragon to accompany them in their strolL
Mamma goes with Mr. Humfrey, and we young people are
left standing together.
Having agreed that at half-past one we are all fo meet at the
large oak, near which the hamper is deposited, I, as hostess,
feel compelled to propose something, so I say,
"Shall we go and explore the woods ?"
My guests readily assent, and accordingly we start on our
expedition, walking four abreast, till a sudden curve in the
path shows us a most exquisite valley, shaded on either side by
trees.
The pathway is much too narrow to allow us to walk
together, so I get slightly in advance of the others, when
Valentine joins me immediately, leaving the Browns to amuse
one another.
Valentine begins to talk at once, and I find him very nice
and exceedingly well-informed ; in fact, just the kind of man
to attract any girl.
We stroll on till we reach the bottom of the valley ; and I
suppose I look rather tired, for he says,
" Won't you sit down under this tree for a little while ? w
I assent, and he throws himself on the grass at my feet,
saying,
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Valentine Humfrey's Trust. 339
" Perhaps you won't believe me, Miss Brabazon, but this is
my idea of everything most pleasurable in life. I feel as
though I could lie here for the rest of my days, and be
happy."
I look rather incredulous at that statement, for he
continues,
" Of course I don't expect you to believe me, but still it is
none the less true. Now, after all, what more can a fellow
want than a comfortable couch, a view of nature under her
most charming aspect, and last, though not least, a pretty and
interesting companion like you ? "
He looks at me from under his eyebrows as he finishes the
sentence, when he has the satisfaction (if such it be) to find
me blushing redder than the rose.
Now, blushing is an emotion which I particularly dislike :
firstly, because people never credit you with the real reason of
your blushes ; and secondly, to me it is very unbecoming,
being of a rather florid complexion.
. In any other circumstance I should probably have smiled
and bowed low at the compliment, and even as it is I am
about to make some laughing rejoinder, when I remember
that hateful conversation, the bare thought of which makes
me shudder, and I conclude that he has been well tutored by
his father; so I say, in the most aggressive manner I can
assume,
" Of course I know contentment is a great blessing ; but it
doesn't show either a very elevated or an ambitious mind,
when a person declares he can be satisfied and find pleasure
in lying on the grass all the days of his life, with no other
resource than counting the blades or staring at the tree-tops."
I begin to doubt whether his intelligence is of a very high
order.
He seems rather surprised at my ill-humour, but does not
make any reply ; so after a minute's silence I say,
" Well, I'm very tired of this, so I shall go and find the
Browns ; and oh, how rude of me to leave Charlie to enter-
tain his own sister ! "
" Perhaps you would prefer Mr. Brown to come and entertain
youV
" To tell you the truth, I should not object, only I don't feel
inclined to look for him."
Digitized by VaOOv IC
340 St. James's Magazine.
" If that's the only difficulty, I shall be most delighted to
seek the fortunate individual for whom you show so decided a
preference"
And with those words he jumps up, and is out of sight in
an instant, only turning round once to call out,
"Stay where you are, or Mr. Brown might miss you-"
I am glad he is gone, for I know I have behaved very rudely
to him ; and I sit quietly, regretting having sent him off, when
I hear footsteps coming towards me, and recognising at once
Charlie's lumbering tread, I rise gently, and moving my posi-
tion by about half a dozen yards, I sit down again on the trunk
of a fallen tree, to await results.
I am quite sure that if Charlie begins any of his nonsense, I
shall be obliged to say something so abominably rude that he
won't speak to me for the rest of the day, and then I shall have
no cavalier at all.
Oh dear, what a wretched little girl I am !
Presently I hear poor Charlie calling me ; but I make no*
the least sign of life, in the hope that he will give up the search,
which he ultimately does, though he keeps on saying,
"Yet I can't be such a fool as to have forgotten what
Humfrey said — ' At the end of the valley and round on the
right.' Yes, this is the end ; and besides, even if she had
moved, she must hear me calling, and I know the dear girl it
too fond of me to let me call in vain."
And he retreats, looking back now and again to make sure
that I am not there.
?' ' He knows the dear girl is too fond of him ' ! How dare
he say such a thing ! I'll tell papa of him, and he shall never
come inside our doors again — the nasty, conceited, impertinent
puppy!"
But on reflection, how am I to tell papa ?
If I were to say that I had sent Mr. Humfrey to fetch hifn,
and then moved away, he might scold me for being fast.
It were decidedly wisest to hold my tongue about the whole
affair, and let things take their course.
After this resolution, I get up and make for the general
trysting-place, where I find nobody but the footman, who is
preparing the cloth for our al fresco repast, in which occupa-
tion I assist, and thus elicit the observation of
" No wonder I could not find you, Florence !" from Charlie,
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Vakntytu Hum/reyy$ TYust. 341
who jast then appears oil the scene, followed by the rest of
the wanderers** ••, .. ... - - ^. •*...-« ./ » •-• -
"Find me!" I say scornfiiUy; "why, I. waited there long
euough'ta be found half a dozen times over, and never moved
but once, and that was to get my hat, which^ Was carried ^ajway
by the >wukL" ; ..-,.• s i* * :», s ..; J
I look up at the two men, who stand together, to seel if I
am believed*
On Charlie's face I read the most implicit confidence iif the
veracity of my statement. Different, though, with Valentine :
I can tell by the almost imperceptible sneer on his lip that he
knows I have not said a word of the truth. :^
We sit down on the grass, and an hour passes very quickly
in the (to me) always attractive occupation of eating. )
Katie Brown monopolizes Valentine ; and Charlie, who has
dubbed himself my cavalier, waits upon me with the utmost
devotion. He is indefatigable in fetching lobster salad, 'fruit,
cracking nuts, etc. He is not a bad cavalier in spite of his
conceit
At last we have partaken of all the good things contained
i&jtheizhampet; ;and, after a slight rest/croqttet is proposed.
Weplayr three games; Valentine being my* partner ^all the
time — not from choice, but because we tossed and he 'fallls to
my share* ■ w .;--•:*'. < '■■ > **
After that we start for home, and arrive at seven o'ctock.
; Mamrn^ kitites them all to come itl, which IftVit&tfon is
accepted by every one but Mr. and Mrs. Hutafrey; Who are
tirexj, apd: go hoi»e, ' WheaiWet have removed bur* outdoor
gannent* a&d refreshed ourselves, we erttef the dmw4ng-room,
when I hear mamma asking Valentine-whethfef-heis ftftisical.
"fa rifye&cfy, What do-yoti call musical? w - < * ^
"Well, do you sing or play?" f * ! ^ * * * ' '*
" Yes, I sing a little f6r my own >arf*tifceItfellt.,- ;> ^
; "Then perhaps you won't objects siftg'fof ours; i Give
th# song a name, and Florrie shall accompany "you;" ,rj
Valentine crosses the room to whertf I stai#k andvka^s in a
low voice, * !*.*r" > ••'*.■" * > ^ w
"You don't seem to care much kbotit the tafifc^ourinamma
h$s set you. Shall I excuse myself on the plea of hoarseness,
and save you the trouble ? " * * ' ¥ ■ "V1
I am on the point of saying, " Yes, make any apology you
Digitized by VjOOQIC
342 5/. Jamefs Magazine.
please," only, at that moment, I catch sight of Katie Brown,
who is looking on in wonderment at our sotto voce conversation ;
so, instead of refusing, I get up with as good a grace as possible
and move towards the piano, where I begin to turn over the
music, till Valentine comes to my side, saying,
" What shall I sing ? Have you any special favourite ?"
" Yes : ' The Message/ by Blumenthal. It is one of my
favourites, only ninety-nine out of every hundred who attempt
it fair
" Well, I know it, and if you will play for me I will sing it.
If I fail you must tell me. Is that a compact ? "
I say " Certainly," and commence the symphony at once.
His voice is clear and very rich, and though when he has
finished I would fain grumble, I cannot find one fault.
He looks at me for my answer, and I say,
" It is the nearest approach to perfection, after Sims Reeves,
that I have ever heard."
" Thanks for saying so much ; but I hope you mean it."
" If I had not thought it, you may be sure I should not
have said so."
" Well, then, you are an exception to the rest of your sex.
Women, as a rule, are credited with being very insincere, and
not unjustly."
" Oh, I can't agree with that ! " I exclaim. " You must not
blame a whole race for the faults of a few."
" Then I won't, Miss Florrie ; but shall I tell you what I
have found women, — not from hearsay, mind, but experience?"
" Yes, I am very fond of hearing different people's ideas.
When I know how they think, I can then form a better
estimate of their characters."
" Well," continues Valentine, " my first experience is that
every woman at heart is a born flirt ; even you, young as you
are, do not differ from the general run."
" And upon what grounds do you base your opinions ? " I
inquire with the greatest effrontery. (I know he will tell me
about to-day's doings at the picnic.)
" My dear young lady, can you really mean to say you do
not flirt with Charlie Brown ? "
" Certainly not," I exclaim ; " but if it be flirting, then I
shall never do differently. If the principles of society are that
one cannot look at or speak to a man without being branded
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Valentine Humfrey1 s Trust. 343
as a flirt" — this with an indignant look at him, — "then the
less I have to do with it the better."
"Now do be reasonable, Miss Brabazon," interposes Valen-
tine, u and instead of rebelling against the laws which society
has rightly established, try and reconcile yourself to them, and
in the end you will be far happier."
I am about to speak, but he adds,
"As regards your not being a flirt, why, I consider you are
one of the worst specimens of the kind I have ever met with.
Par exetnple, only this very day, whilst we were conversing
agreeably, you suddenly, and as far as I can judge without any
justifiable cause, dismiss me, as though I were a slave, and
start me off in quest of another fellow — with the intention,
I suppose, of adding an extra victim to your already lengthy
list of conquests. Poor Brown, of course, thought he was to
be 'first favourite ' ; but when he arrives, the charmed spot is
vacated, and you nowhere to be found. Why, see even now
with what fond admiration he is gazing upon you ! "
I look across to where Charlie sits, and truly there is good
honest love depicted on his most (to me) uninteresting coun-
tenance. I then turn and glance at the man who stands by
me, and looking, wonder, if I tried, whether I could succeed
in making his face wear a similar aspect.
I daresay those who read this will say that Valentine's
opinion of me is correct ; but though my fixed determination
is never to marry him, I think it would be worth while to try
and make him like me a little.
So, being of a very resolute temperament, I come to the
conclusion that it will be quite worth while ; and having been
accused of flirting, it will be as well not to get out of practice.
Charlie is already too far gone, but Valentine does not care
two straws for me ; and the feeling being quite mutual, there
can be no harm to him or me in the attempt.
My motto (at least since I have been old enough to have
one) is " agir? — consequently when Valentine comes to me
and says " Good-night and good-bye," I say,
" Are you going away, then ? "
" Well, yes ; I thought of running up to Town to-morrow,
unless "
"Unless I ask you to remain. Is that what you were
going to say ? " And I look up in his face with a smile^
VOL. I. Digj^dby
344 S/. Jamefs Magazine.
" Not exactly ; but if it affords you any pleasure or gratifi-
cation to know that you possess "the power of keeping me
here, you can hear it in a moment."
I laugh softly, and say, "Very well ; you stay down, and
whenever you want any one to accompany your songs, come
to me."
" Agreed," says Valentine ; " I shall be here to-morrow at
eleven for a practice ; " and with that, and a shake of the
hand, we part — he to go home, convinced that his estimate of
me is right, I to retire to my bedroom \ there to lay my plan of
action, so fully determined am I that this great judge of
human character shall not find^himself mistaken; at all events
as far as I am concerned.
I am almost undressed, when the door-bell rings violently ;
and placing a Cashmere robe de chambre round me, I go
out on the landing to see what can be the matter at this late
hour (past eleven). To my surprise I hear Valentine ask for
me, and the servant reply,
" She's gone to bed, sir."
Before she can say more I rush down to the bottom of the
stairs, where I see Valentine, looking deadly pale, holding
&n open telegram in his hand. I go to him quietly, and say,
" You have bad news ; please tell me at once, as anything
is better than suspense."
" Well — there has been an accident on the railway, and
Mr. Brabazon is severely injured. In point of fact, they say
there is no hope.1'
I look in his face, and see no hope written there, and I
Say, •
1 " But you don't mean to say that he'll never get better ?
Why don't they bring him home, and let us send for the
doctor ? "
" Because, my dear child," — and he comes towards me and
takes my hand, — " because a doctor would be of no earthly
use. Your poor papa died an hour ago."
For a moment it seems as if the whole world were turning
round with me ; then, with a despairing cry, I faint away.
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Valentine Hunt/rey's Trust. 345
CHAPTER IV;
CONSOLATION.
A month has slipped away since the sad event of papa's
death ; and to-day, for the first time, I am able to lie on the
sofa for a few hours. Truly a welcome change from bed.
Miss Macdragon tells me I have been very ill, and that the
sudden shock was so severe that during the early part of my
illness the medical men in attendance on me (there were three
of them) entertained but very slight hopes that I should ever
recover my reason,
" But you see, my dear," she adds, " Providence has watched
over you, and now I hope you will be spared for many years."
" And mamma ? " I ask, " how is she ? "
" Better, much better," she says. " She went abroad last
week, accompanied by her maid, Nelson. When the news
was told to her she sank into such a state of melancholy, that
the doctors said continual change of scene was the only thing
likely to benefit her."
" When did you last hear from them ? " I say. ,
" Oh, yesterday." And she shows me a letter from Nice, in
which Nelson writes that mamma improves every day, and that
they are always on the move.
"Mac, dear," I presently exclaim, "how good you have
been to us all ! What should we have done without you ? "
"Right you are there, Miss Florrie!" says the faithful Polly,
who at this moment enters the room with my. luncheon tray.
"She's been as good as a slave to both of ypu for the last
month. Would you believe it ? " she adds : " she never took
off her dress for eighteen blessed days and nights — that she
didn't!"
"Hush, Polly!" says Mac; "Miss Florence does not want
to be troubled with all that nonsense."
" Is it nonsense, then ? Well, she won't be the young lady
/ takes her for if she ever forgets it— so there!" And she
bounces from the room, after depositing my midday meal on
a small table by my $ide.
" Come here, Mac," I say, a§. ,she closes the door after
Polly ; " come and tell me how I am to thank you for all
your kindness."
346 Si. Jameses Magazine.
" By getting well and strong, dear, as soon as you can, and
by leaving off crying," — as she sees the tears chasing one
another down my face ; " and then well start off somewhere
for change of scene, too."
I remain quiet for some time, and then I ask, "Have
people been kind since our trouble ? Strangers» I mean."
"Indeed they have," she says, — "the Humfreys in par-
ticular, for the Captain has never missed calling at least twice
a day, and has sent the loveliest flowers, though you have
not been able to appreciate them.
* And the Browns ? " I inquire.
" Oh ! poor Charlie has almost been out of his senses. I
do believe, if I had allowed it, he would have slept on the
doormat in order to hear the first bulletin in the morning."
" Yes," I murmur ; " I think he likes me a little bit, don't
you, Mac ? *
" I am sure he does, my dear ; but he is not the only one
who likes you a little bit."
" Who do you mean, then ? " I exclaim.
" Why, Valentine, to be sure. His face was a study when
he came to me the day after the funeral, and asked me, with
almost tears in his eyes, ' whether I thought you would ever
bear to look at him again/ "
" And what did you say, Mac ? " I ask.
"I said, my dear, that I was sure, as soon you were well,
enough to see visitors at all, that one of the most welcome
would be himself. And I hope I was not wrong ? v she adds.
" No," I exclaim ; " it would indeed be wicked of me to
refuse to see him because he chanced to be the bearer of sad
intelligence to me. I daresay it will be hard at first," I con-
tinue, "but I suppose I shall get over the feeling in time."
" And now eat your luncheon, Florrie, " says Mac, " and
then take a doze for a little while. You know it is early
times yet for you to talk so much, and I don't wish you to
get a relapse."
"I do as I am told. Somehow since my illness I have
become much more tractable than I used to be. Sickness
and sorrow make such a difference, even to young people.
And so another week runs away, and at last I go down to
the drawing-room, feeling truly thankful to be about once
more. On looking in the glass I am terribly shocked to see
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Valentine Humfrey's Trust. 347
the ravages illness has produced. My face is very thin, and
white as marble, and ray beautiful wavy hair, once my great
pride, is all gone : cropped close to my head."
" How dreadfully pale I look ! " I say to Mac.
" Your dress makes you look whiter than you really are,"
she answers. And for the first time I notice my long black
dress, deeply trimmed with crape, emblem of all that is
saddest
"What is all this for?" I passionately exclaim. "I do
not need all this outside show to remind me of my trouble."
" I know you do not, Florence," says Mac soothingly ; " but,
all the same, you are much too young to think of opposing
those conventionalities which society at large demands."
"What do I care for society?" I exclaim ; "society cannot
replace that which I have lost, and my grief would be quite
as genuine in a pink or blue dress as it is in this one."
Before I have finished my impetuous speech Captain Hum-
frey's card is brought in to me, and I at once give the order
to admit him. He enters with less self-possession than I
thought he could ever show, and I firmly believe for the
moment I have the most moral courage. However, in a few
moments he recovers himself, and mutters something about
"being glad to see me down again." I thank him very
much for his kind attention during my illness, to which he
says, " I am sure I ought to do something to compensate for
the sad intelligence I was obliged to bring you."
At the mention of that, the whole of that dreadful night
passes before me, and I burst out crying.
" Oh dear ! " he says most contritely ; " now I have opened
the old wound again. What a confounded fool I am ! " he
mutters between his teeth, as my sobs rather increase than
otherwise.
Presently I recover myself a little, and apologise for
making a scene. (I know men detest women who cry easily.)
After some very desultory conversation he rises to go,
and having said goodbye and reached the door, he suddenly
returns saying,
u Do you know, Miss Brabazon, I think you would be better
if you had something to distract your mind."
"Yes, I suppose I should; but what can I do?" I ask
helplessly.
Digitized by VjO.OQ IC
348 Si. James's Magazine.
(i Why, let me come every day, and we will do a little music
together, and anything else you like."
" You are very good," I say ; " and I shall be glad to do
anything you suggest."
"Well," he says, "suppose I come every morning from
eleven till one, because that won't prevent your going out in
the afternoon."
I accede to the proposition gladly, and we part, with the
agreement that our course of studies is to commence to-
morrow.
Macdragon is quite rejoiced to hear of our arrangement ;
and the next morning, and for several mornings, he comes
punctually, and we practise, and he gives me lessons in draw-,
ing — so that at the end of a fortnight I am improved both
in health and spirits. To-day, however, it is past eleven, and
no Valentine appears ; but just as I am pacing in a sulky
way up and down the room, a note is brought to me from
him, with an apology that he is unable to come, in conse-
quence of the sudden arrival from Town of a friend, but
adding that Mrs. Humfrey would be very pleased if I would
go and see them in the afternoon, and take a cup of tea
with them.
" Of course you'll go, Florrie," says Miss Macdragon ; " it
will be a nice change for you."
I assent, and at half-past three start out to walk to Truro
Lodge, and on arriving inquire for the lady of the establish-
ment.
We are at once shown into her presence, and find her
lounging on the sofa in a small room which leads off the
drawing-rooip (called by her the boudoir), with a French
novel on her lap. Mr. Humfrey is asleep in an armchair, with
his feet on another ; and though our entrance is anything kut
quiet, he does not wake.
After the first interchange of greetings, Mrs. Humfrey
vegins to take stock of me, and politely inquires what price I
paid for everything I am wearing, commencing with my dress
and ending with my boots — or, I should say, shoes.
I am just beginning to feel very bored, and to vow inwardly
that nothing shall induce me to accept any more invitations
for afternoon tea — at least from them — when the door is
flung open with a bang, which causesDig^y Humfrey to
Valentine Humfrey^s Trust. 349
wake with a start, and Valentine, accompanied by his friend,
comes in.
Now, if the truth must be told, I am very much astonished
and somewhat annoyed, when I discover that the person to
question is a woman, young and very pretty, instead of a
man, as I had imagined it would be.
Before I have time to say anything, Valentine comes up to
me, and after making some slight remark about his absence
in the morning, says,
"But I am very glad you have come this afternoon, because
I should like to introduce you to Miss Cavendish."
I murmur something about "being delighted" f (which I
don't mean), and he then presents her. to me. She bows
amiably enough, and I return the salute in a most frigid
manner. One of those awkward pauses then occui1, when no
one seems willing to break the silence ; but fortunately at that
moment the servant enters, bearing the tea equipage (by-the-
bye not the most elegant), and places it on a small round table.
Miss Cavendish instantly jumps up and offers to pour it
out ; and though I am not prepossessed in her favour, I can-
not help thinking how gracefully she does everything, and
wondering whether she is any relation to the Humfreys (not
that it makes any difference to me, one way or the other). It
is nearly six o'clock before we take our departure, and Valen-
tine comes with us to the garden-gate, saying,
" What about to-morrow morning, Miss Brabazon ? Shall
I bring Lucille with me, or shall we forego our intellectual
pursuits until her visit is over ? "
"I can't see the need to do either," I exclaim, "unless you
are engaged to her, and she won't trust you with me."
" Oh rto," he laughs, " we are not engaged ; but I thought
perhaps you would have been glad of a young female com-
panion for a few days."
"ft is no reason," I say rather rudely, "that because you
are enraptured with Miss Cavendish, every one else is to find
her perfection."
" Don't you think, now," he says, with the most perfect good
humour, " that you are slightly running into extremes ? I am
not aware that I either said I found her perfection, or that I
was enraptured with her."
"Ah well, I leave it entirely to you wheth^itj${j@^^£
350 St. Jameses Magazine.
you stop away. Do just as you please." And giving a short
" goodbye," I march off at a brisk pace, Mac floundering on
behind, and trying in vain to keep up with me.
When we are out of sight of the house I slacken speed,
and ask Mac what she thinks of " her?
" I suppose by ' Iter 'you mean Miss Cavendish ? " says Mac.
I nod my head for answer, and she continues,
" I think her simply charming, and so unaffected. Don't
you?"
"No, indeed," I say sharply. "I think her detestable."
" Florence, I am quite surprised at you," says Mac in a
severe tone, " and I beg you will not make use of such violent'
expressions in my presence."
" Well, I won't be violent, as you are pleased to term it,
again ; but don't you think he likes her, and intends marrying
her?." I ask.
"No, I do not, dear child. And learn, from one much'
older than yourself, that, as a rule, men never marry the
women to whom they pay very marked attention."
We continue chatting much in the same strain till we reach
home; and after partaking of a tea-supper' at eight, retire to
bed shortly after.
My first thought, on waking in the morning, is of Valentine,
and whether he will come or not. We breakfast late, and by
the time I have arranged some flowers about the rooms, I
discover it is almost the hour of our appointment.
I have only been in the drawing-room a minute, when
Valentine appears, and I am delighted to see he is alone.
We commence our studies; but I suddenly stop in the
middle of an accompaniment, and turning round on the music-
stool, say,
" Is Miss Cavendish any relation to you ? "
"Well, I can hardly explain that now; but my maternal
uncle, Sir James Cavendish, adopted her, at the age of ten."
For a fortnight our lessons go on the same, till they come
to an end suddenly, through an event which I must narrate in
my next chapter.
( To be continued. )
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''There is no doubt about the origin ot Promethia." [Seepage 378.
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*,
Promethia.
By ELLIS J. DAVIS,
AUTHOR OF "SEEN FROM THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL'S," ETC,
CHAPTER XVII.
A STANGE DREAM.
HAD scarcely proceeded forty yards, being obliged
to walk with great care on the slippery floor now
that I had all the light at my back, when I saw
the gleam of a lantern approaching towards me,
and the next minute the doctor was by my side, and speaking
with the greatest concern and alarm for my safety.
"My dear Mr. Harte, whatever induced you to come
down here ? I happened to see the trap open, and it occurred
to me somebody must have descended. Thank God, you made
your exploration when it was low water, for at high tide, had
your foot slipped, you must have perished ; the merest trifle
of unsteadiness would have sealed your fate. There is a
rapid decline all the way to the river, and the water at
times rushes up and down with irresistible violence. It would
have swept you out in an instant." He spoke in a tone
of genuine anxiety. I could not believe that his fears
were only lest his secret, if there was one, should be dis-
covered, so I at once told him what I had found. He looked
grave:
" The fact is," he said, " but this must be a private matter
between us, I have in one of the lower chambers of my
house a dissecting-room, and sometimes I am bound to
dispose of a subject in a hurry. Then, you see, the river is
my friend. The crime is not very dreadful, but I should
catch it if the authorities got scent of the truth."
The candour of this avowal disarmed me. It was perhaps
wrong of him to set the law at defiance, but the pursuit of
VOL.^L DigitizedS/fGCK
352 Si. James* s Magazine.
science under difficulties in these days of anti-vivisection
agitation was some excuse for his conduct, and I could pardon
him for trying to pursue his studies in defiance of the law.
A fellow-feeling makes one lenient : I should have done the
same thing myself, had I been similarly situated.
"You see," he continued, "this communication with the
river was formed a good many years ago, but I had it cemented
and made more safe only lately. The proximity to the works
yonder, and the exit of their channel just near to mine,
enable me to avoid all suspicion, for none of the authorities
are aware of the existence of this way into my grounds^
They think the orifice belongs to the soap-works, and I never
undeceive them. I will take care that the object is removed."
He promised this apparently out of deference to my feel-
ings, and immediately began to make his way before me
towards the mouth of the tunnel. I was not sorry to have
a guide with a lamp in front, for it was a truly dismal place,
especially after the impression produced on me by the object
I had seen. We gained the upper air together, and then he
said,
" Pray understand me, Mr. Harte. I am very glad to have
you here as long as you like to stay. Indeed I should take
it as a very ill return for my services, trifling as they were, if
you thought of leaving me yet. But I must ask this of you,
not to interfere with anything you may see, or that may
occur in your neighbourhood. You must be aware that
medical men are often placed in very peculiar positions with
regard to their patients ; and of these positions, and the duty
of a doctor when in a difficulty, outsiders are hardly com-
petent to judge."
" Indeed," I said, feeling penitent for the intrusion into his
tunnel, which was certainly not an act distinguished by good
breeding, " I am very sorry I allowed my curiosity to lead
me into prying about your domain. I wish to explain that
the reason why I explored it was that I felt anxious to see
the exact spot in which I had met with the accident, and
when once I opened the trap I felt, like Aladdin, bound to
descend and see the wonders of the realms below."
" Never apologize for the past, Mr. Harte, but do better in
future. That is invariably my motto." And without another
word, he closed the trap and led the way into the house.
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Promethia. 353
We walked on together in silence, I thinking that his
motto was not a bad one, and when arrived in the library
he shook my hand and left me to my own resources. I felt
a longing for the excitement of the society of Promethia.
How I loved that woman ! Her form and face were always
before me now. I should have gone in search of her had I
known exactly where to find the room she occupied. The
object I had found in the tunnel, and altogether my adven-
ture down there, weighed considerably on my spirits ; and I
felt I needed her presence to bring me back to a calm state
of mind. But she did not come, and I was left alone to pass
the time as well as I could with the help of books and music,
and my lonely thoughts, which after my adventure were any-
thing but filled with lively ideas. Still the afternoon wore
away somehow or other, and we sat down to dinner our usual
party — the doctcfr, Promethia, and myself. I had no opportu-
nity of saying a word to her before she took her seat, and in
accordance with her invariable rule she never opened her lips
during the dinner, but sat like a statue, only giving me an
occasional glance when she was quite certain of avoiding the
doctor's scrutiny. There was no loving tenderness in the
glance, no sympathy, no encouragement, nothing from which
an eager lover like myself might gather hope, but simply a
recognition that I was sometimes in her thoughts, and not
associated with unpleasant ideas. She was generally dressed
in the same pale blue silk that had been her attire the first
evening, and she wore her hair in a variety of ways, differing
in their principal details but little, and yet sufficiently various
to. add the charm of novelty to her coiffure. She never
supplemented her costume with ornaments or trinkets, and
she never came down as if her toilet had been hurried or in
any way left imperfect During our present meal the doctor
enjoyed the entire right of conversation, for I had little to say,
and merely listened to him or replied in monosyllables. He
was in high spirits, and turned his speech to the discussion
of the political aspect of the Continent He spoke fluently,
and gradually warmed up as he entered into the subject I
was very much surprised to find him a man of so much
general information, for I had rather gathered from the con-
versation with which he had favoured me on the first evening
of our dining together, that he was wedded entirely to the study
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354 ^ James's Magazine.
of his profession, and that of general knowledge he possessed
very little. I thought him to be a man who only knew what
it was his business to know. But now he launched forth into
political themes in a manner which proved him to be well-
informed through study, reading, and careful thought, and
naturally endowed with a vigorous intellect His ideas as
he expressed them were not like the conversation of most
ordinary persons — mere repetition of the opinions of the daily-
newspapers, but came from his own intelligence, and on many-
points his suggestions were full of meaning, and embodied
sound common- sense proposals. I became interested and
amused, and forgot for the time everything but the discourse
to which I was listening. So the evening passed quietly, and
I retired to my room in comfort. As I sat down by the
fire, however, I recollected what the doctor's wife had pro-
mised, and I resolved to wait up until midnight to see if she
intended the fulfilment of her word.
It was aslightlycold night, and thedoctorhad accommodated
me with a fire. There was no disturbance in the external air,
and within the atmosphere was pleasant I sat down by the
blazing hearth and took up a book. I knew very well there
^was nothing in it to amuse me, but it would serve to pass the
time, and with its help and my thoughts of Promethia I could
get through the hour which was wanting to midnight The
flames flickered and blazed, and the candle threw a clear light
on the page of my book. I was intent on reading, or at least
my eyes were fully occupied in tracing the letters, when
suddenly I looked up and thought I saw Promethia at the
door. I rose, but the door was shut, and there was no one
there. Just at that moment, and as I was preparing to walk
into the passage and see if there had been any actual founda-
tion for this image, the great clock of a neighbouring church
began to sound the hour of midnight. I stopped. Clear
rang the bell-like tones. Around the house they seemed to
swing and echo on the face of the sky. I listened. They
ceased, and floated away. I opened the door : all in the house
was quiet. I had seen nothing, but imagined Promethias
presence. I turned round, and locking the door of my room
proceeded to undress and go to bed. I made up my mind
that the lady of the hotise would not be abroad after midnight,
neither did I think it would be well to receive a visit from
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Promethia. 355
her, notwithstanding my curiosity about Promethia, even if
she ventured to come at such an hour. I therefore extin-
guished my candle, and was soon fast asleep : the events of
the day had been enough to tire me out.
I awoke from my slumber with a start and a shriek. I
had been dreaming, but there was such terrible reality about
the dream that I doubted whether it was the production of
the imagination or reality. The dream was distinct and strong
upon me, and the events had shaped themselves thus : —
At first I was lying fast asleep in an Indian forest. It was
one of those magnificent primeval woods which exist only in
the new world, where the foot of man, at least of civilised
man, of this present generation of pale-faced adventurers had
never trod for a permanency. The trees were tall and upright,
and the green branches arched over my head into a dark
roof, shutting out all but the sleepless stars, and at times
the twinkling radiance of a silver moonbeam. My clothes
were only partially removed, and a blanket served me for
bed. My head was pillowed on the folds of an enormous
viper, but I had not the least fear of the fatal snake, and his
body seemed a soft resting-place. Instead of being afraid of
the monster, I was in a state of the most perfect repose,
cushioned upon him, and though sleeping, remained in full
possession of all my senses. The air was warm and soft,
while but little dew fell to the earth under the broad shade of
the trees. Up above there fluttered on darksome wings a giant
night-bird — an owl or a cormorant — in silent search of prey,
and I was lulled into a sense of security by the song of a
rippling river which seemed to be flowing along at a little
distance from the place of my slumbers. No midnight cries
of prowling beast or dismal bird broke the calm of the intense
solitude, and a great silence as of the dead, and their earthly
home of peace, the graveyard, seemed to rule throughout
that mighty forest Such a scene I had often visited in my
wanderings and travels, though the exact spot brought to my
mind no familiar recollections.
I was dropping into a sound and unconscious sleep when
I became aware of something alighting from on high in my
immediate neighbourhood. I turned to look at it, but I had
no power to move. I was sleeping, and fast locked to the
ground, as it were, by a chain of iron. Yet ^p^(W|g$|J|£
356 St. Jameses Magazine.
Thing was, and feared it as it crept or rather shuffled along
and fluttered upon the ground towards me. I was to be its
victim, but I had no power to resist it or call for aid, even if
aid were at hand. Presently it grew quite close to me, and I
could see it in all its horrid likeness. It was nothing less
than a huge Vampire Bat, — one of those fearful creatures of
whom so many tales and stories have been told and written, —
the bat that waits until the shadows of night have closed the
eyes of the sleepers, and then upon silent wing enters the
room, to fall down close by the side of the unfortunate victim,
and approaching him, creep to his side with a fanning motion
of the wings which keeps him from waking, while with a
deadly purpose it bites through the flesh and drinks away
the warm life-blood.
I saw the creature plainly enough. It stood about a foot
or more from the ground, and was of a dark colour, feather-
less and clammy, looking like an ill-omened night cloud.
The wings were extended, and beat the air slowly towards
me as it approached. The ears stood up from either side of
the head — dull, leathery, and peculiarly hideous. They were
large, and folded over themselves like pieces of crumpled
parchment. The eyes, small and cunning, gazed at me with
an expression of determined cruelty ; the little light they
ever saw neither softened their aspect nor gave them brilliancy
or colour. These eyes were not fascinating, but simply fearful,
yet I could not turn from them, but was compelled to drink
deeply of their fatal power. The creature's face was mouse-
like, and the long upper lip protruded awfully from the jaw.
It was the most horrible appendage that I had ever seen on
animated being, and it cttrled and trembled as if glutting
itself with the joy of the prospect of the coming banquet.
The short furry hair on the body was stained with gore — the
gore of other human beings, and the talons held flesh, and
had a red appearance about them. Such was the Thing which
made its way, partly on wings, partly on its stealthy crawling
claws, to my side and towards my head.
It never accelerated its pace in the least, and the air from
its wings fanned my brow, and seemed to act upon me as an
opiate. I slept sounder and sounder, and yet I was perfectly
conscious of everything. Presently it came quite close, and
seemed examining my features, and then it stretched out its
Promethia. 357
head towards my ear, and was about to place the horrible
lip in close contact with my flesh, when it drew back and
gradually changed in form and feature. It grew large — it
expanded — it rose to the stature of man, and became Dr.
Delgardo; and by his side, a little in the rear, holding a
candle for him, was Promethia. Hers was a loose evening
costume, with hair unbound and flowing around her ; but she
was standing there, as it appeared to me, not to aid the doctor,
but to warn and save me from him. Her right hand was
raised with the candle, and the other slept upon her » breast.
Her eyes looked into mine with a sympathetic gaze, and
seemed to apprise me against coming evil; but the doctor
advanced and leant over my bed, examining my features in
silence. Then he put his hand into his pocket and drew out
a small instrument case. Turning to Promethia, he said, in
a harsh tone of command,
" Bring the light here. He is fast asleep."
She did as she was told, and he held his hand towards my
ear with the knife in it, while he extended the other to lay hold
of the organ for the purpose of securing it in a convenient
position for the operation he conte mplated, when suddenly,
and just as I felt the knife about to glide across the skin and
remove my ear from my head, she let the candle drop, and
he turned to her with an oath. She fled — he followed, — and
I awoke with the start and shriek mentioned above.
The impression produced by this dream was fearful. So
vivid was it, indeed, that I could not believe my room un-
occupied ; and yet as I looked through the darkness, illumined
only by one single ray of light from a half-expired coal lying
in the grate, I could distinguish nothing, and felt uncom-
monly nervous and foolish. As my senses returned, however,
and the impression became less powerfully operative, I scolded
myself for permitting the effect of a nightmare to remain for
a moment upon me. I began to fear that the blow my
head had received really affected my brain, and I resolved to
lose no opportunity of quitting the doctor's kind care, and
seeking the best medical advice that the city could afford.
Was it possible that there had been any one in my room ?
and had the intrusion, coupled with the memory of what had
transpired the other day, been the erigin of the dream ? I
looked around, and saw nothing, but I thought it as well to
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35S Si. James's Magazine.
get out of bed, light a candle, and find out whether or not
the lock of my room door had been tampered with during
my sleep. Accordingly I did so, and found the door fast
shut The dream was then nothing but a vision of the night,
and the best thing I could do was to get back into bed and
go to sleep again. Doubtless the impression would wear off
by the morning, if I had a good night's rest
So I extinguished the candle and got into bed, resolved to
use to the utmost the controlling force of will to banish any
fearsome nervous lingerings remaining from that terrible .
jdream. It was absurd for a grown man, and a man who
boasted, as I did, of his superiority in all matters of physical
and mental strength over the ordinary run of mankind, to
allow a dream, the result of indigestion or lying on one side,
to disturb a night's rest I would go to sleep in spite of
myself, and if another Vampire made his appearance I would
soon find out a way of settling the troublesome visitor. I
had not taken the trouble to look at my watch while this
occurrence took place, but I imagined I had not been sleeping
very long. For some moments I lay perfectly still, listening
for the sounds of life external to the house. Such noises as
the rumbling of a cab or the cry of a night watchman are
very reassuring to a man who has been frightened by a bad
dream ; but all was as still as could be, and there appeared
to be no one moving in the neighbourhood. Slowly my nerves
became calm, my brain quiet, and I was just dropping off to
sleep again when against my door sounded a distinct knock.
Once it struck clearly upon my ear. I started bolt-upright
in my bed, with terror making my hair stand on end, and the
blood rush suddenly to my half-paralysed heart. Who could
be at my door in the dead of night ?
" Fool," I said to myself, " it was only fancy." I turned
round again and lay down, when the knock came once more.
" Oh, well," said I, " if there is any one there I will let him
in ; " and suiting the action to the word, I sprang from the
bed, lit the candle again, and throwing a dressing-gown over
my shoulders, went forward without even the poker. Shall I
tell the truth ? My heart half expected that it was Promethia
come to warn or encourage me, and I was not afraid to meet
her in the dead of night When I opened the door, there
stood the doctor's wife, dressed and to all appearance never
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Promethia. 359
having been to bed. I asked her to wait for me a few minutes,
divining instantly, and without a question, the purport of her
visit ; and clothing myself as rapidly as possible, I was soon
prepared to follow her wherever she led the way.
CHAPTER XVIII.
" THOU ART MINE."
BEING ready for our nocturnal expedition, I came to the/^„ '
door, outside of which the lady had been waiting for me candk£r
in hand, and intimated my willingness to accompany her. \\t
" Put out the light," she said, " and take my hand." £..
I obeyed her mechanically, and closed the door of m$r
room behind me, so that no one passing would discover that
I was not occupying it as usual. The passages were quite
dark, but I placed implicit reliance on my guide, and a desire to
learn all that was to be known concerning Promethia overcame
any sensation but the one longing to go forward. The dream
had wakened me at the right time ; that was some consolation
for the fright it had occasioned me. As we went along she
whispered in my ear,
" I had to wait until very late, you see, for he did not come
up until past midnight. They are together now. You will
do as I tell you, and I will put you in a place where you can
both see and hear. As you value your existence, do not move
or speak. He would kill you like a dog. I know him."
With this timely caution she closed her lips, and led me on,
holding my hand in hers. We went through one passage and
across another, until we came to a staircase up which she
led me, I following without a word or the least hesitation.
It took us some time to traverse a short distance, for every
minute or two she stopped to listen, and if she heard the
least sound, or but fancied she heard one, she would press
close against the wall and make me stand still beside her,
waiting with breathless suspense until all seemed quiet again.
At length we arrived at the foot of a narrow staircase, one
I had not noticed when inspecting the house with the doctor,
and up this we climbed until arrived, as far as I could judge,
about a third of the way. We passed a jutting landing in
V~"
360 Si. James's Magazine.
the brick wall which backed the spiral ascent She paused,
and stepping on to it pushed open a small door looking more
Uke the trap of a flue than an entrance into any place a human
being ought to visit ; there was a light shining down it from
a candle or lamp standing in a socket a little way up, and she
took a light from this lamp and showed me the way in. We
had to make our way close together into a twisted passage,
and then she shut the door without the least noise, and told
me to follow her carefully. Our road first lay up an inclined
plane between walls the narrowest of the narrow, against
which we grazed our arms almost every minute, and then it
was necessary to wind round two or three long passages.
These passages were narrow, and scarcely high enough to
admit a tall man walking, but with care I managed to get
along them without injuring my head. She went before with
the light, always showing the way, and seemed perfectly
familiar with the route to be pursued. At length, after we
had moved some considerable distance in this manner, she
stopped and pointed out to me a movable piece of wood.
"When you take that away," she said, "you will find a
large hole or cavity which lies between the rafters of the
room above and the ceiling of the room below. Lie flat
down on your chest, and push forward until you see a light
shining upwards through the chinks, and the persons beneath.
You will be able to hear every word they say quite distinctly-
There is a space on the right-hand side closed by a ventilator
with slits in it, and looking through that you will discern
everything that goes on clearly and easily enough. I wiU
wait here for you."
As she said this, she showed me how I was to make my
way into the hole, and extinguished the candle immediately
I pulled the board away. I do not know what became of her
during the next hour. Either she sat down somewhere in
the passage or went back and awaited me, while I, following
her instructions, and eager to gratify my curiosity, pushed
forward on my chest and face, and, guided by a narrow beam
of light which I now saw shooting upwards from a corner,
made my way forward and came to the ventilator. It was
apparently quite close to the ceiling, and when I got near to it
I found that in spite of my uncomfortable position I could see
the whole of the room beneath me, and hear what was passing
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Promethia. 361
between the inmates. I could look through a broad slit in
the ventilator, and the strong light within the room was suffi-
ciently powerful to enable me to see with perfect clearness all
that passed.
The room was a good-sized one, nicely fitted with taste
and luxurious art. The paper was smart, and the carpet
a warm Turkey, rich with colourings of blues and reds. In
one corner was a sofa, and at the other end an alcove
which had been hung with heavy curtains, and looked as
if it were made to conceal a bed. The room was furnished
as a sitting-room ; but there was an open door at one side
leading into what appeared to me to be a dressing or ante-
room for the use of the occupant. A bright fire blazed in the
grate, and an arm-chair was drawn closely up before it
The occupants of the chamber were two. Dr. Delgardo
sat in the arm-chair by the fire, and Promethia stood before
him, watching his face as a dog watches the countenance of
his master. Her hands were, as usual, folded on her breast,
and her head slightly lowered towards them. Her hair was
all down, and flowed in rich luxuriance around her, almost
sweeping the ground. Her costume was a light dress or
evening robe, cut rather low, and hanging sufficiently loose
about her to reveal the perfect symmetry of her neck and
Shoulders and the gentle swell of her boiom. The firelight
dwelt upon her hair, her cheeks, and her brow, and flashed
from off the marble whiteness of her hands. Never had I
seen Promethia look so perfectly lovely. The long flowing
wealth of hair streaming around her, the perfect grace of her
posture, the calm repose of her countenance, and the peace-
ful serenity of her expression as it rested on the doctor,
seemed to me to endue her with all that was most admirable,
all that the most complete loveliness could ever give to
woman. Most perfect, most worthy of adoration. I never
felt for her as at that moment: she charmed me; my soul was
filled with raptures of delight. Oh, but to win the love of
such a being ! Life would be as fair as ever fable or song
pictured it How at that moment I envied the doctor sitting
there, and taking his fill of the loveliness before him !
While I thought this, and felt all my passions roused by
the sight of her perfections, she seemed not to know her
beauty, but stood calm and self-collected, apparently watting
362 S/. James's Magazine.
for his command or permission either to speak or move.
While eagerly expecting their conversation, I looked round,
and in one corner of the room I noticed her harp, in another
a table covered with books and music, and there was a piano-
forte in the niche of the window. She was not left without
plenty of amusement and occupation.
The doctor was reading a book which rested on his knee,
and seemed deeply engrossed in the work, while Promethia
neither moved nor spoke nor looked away from him, but
waited there like an image of stone, and, as I thought,
entirely submissive to some subtle influence which he com-
municated to her; still as I gazed down earnestly at the
picture of those two, I could not but feel by a certain slight
change in the girl's face that my presence had some effect
upon her, though she was quite unconscious of my proximity,
and only felt a sort of dreamy idea that some friendly spirit
was hovering at hand.
I could have watched Promethia, as she stood there in all
her rich beauty, with the firelight glistening and flashing
upon her, for any length of time; and nothing — notwith-
standing my anxiety to hear what passed between them —
made me more sorry than to see the doctor throw his book to
the other side of the room and call her to him.
" Promethia !" he said, breaking the spell and the glamour
of the silence.
She drew near submissively, and then I heard this conver-
sation. Every word rose distinctly to my hiding-place.
" I can read no more to-night, my child," he began ; " and,
moreover, I have no longer any interest in this reading. I
must talk to you — I must tell you what is agitating me. You
have heard it before in vain, but now I must succeed. I am
resolved to bend your will to mine."
She stooped at his feet while he spoke, and bending her
beautiful head towards him, replied, —
" You know your will is my only guide."
"You say so, but what are you prepared to do for me?
Do you know what I feel for you, Promethia ? Often have I
told it to you — often have I shown it to you. You are my alj,
my beloved — the darling of my existence. I am obliged to
appear harsh and indifferent to you before others, to prevent
myself from giving way to the passion which consumes me
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Promethia. 363
like a devouring flame. To think that I, the man who has
done so much more than other men — than those who live
now, or who ever have or ever will live, should thus have
become your slave — the slave of beauty, of love, of passion,
for a creature of flesh !" He covered his face with his hands,
while she cowered down before him apparently unable to find
words to answer his wild speech, or perhaps unwilling to
take in the significance of what he was urging upon her.
Presently he broke forth again more earnestly, more wildly
than before :
"Promethia! you must and shall hear me this time. I
never feared but that I should be ultimately successful, not
even when I gave you that promise, until I saw you with this
stranger, this Mr. Harte. You must hear me now, darling !
Stand up and listen."
His last words were sharp as a pistol-shot, and she sprang
to her feet as if struck by a ball, and stood still before him,
submissive yet firm in her aspect.
He looked at her steadfastly, took in her whole form with
his gaze, and said, —
a When your eyes first opened to the light of day, I beheld
the image of a beauty I had hardly imagined could exist.
It is true that the forms from which I took my designs, the
models and images that had continually surrounded me, and.
dwelt in my imagination during those three years of incessant
toil, had been of the fairest the earth had to show ; but my
skill caught a something fairer than all these. No one who
looks at you with the eye of a man simply admiring a
woman for her beauty and perfection will deny that among
all fair women of this earth you stand forth pre-eminently
fair and perfect in form and feature. Hence, Promethia, I
looked on your perfection, and — hear me say it yet again —
I loved you, loved you to madness, to distraction. For you
I foi^ot wife and child and all that once was dear; for
you I forgot science and art; for you I forgot the sunshine
and the stars, and the voices of all things that once moved
my soul to gladness ; for you I cast aside ambition ; for you
I would have laid down life, fame, fortune— even the price-
less knowledge which the hard toil of years had wrung from
the reluctant bosom of nature, the knowledge which had
given you birth. You start. You shall know all this night."
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364 Si. James's Magazine.
If she started at his words, what were my sensations as I
heard him speak thus? What revelation was he about to
make to the fair and perfect being standing before him ?
But whatever I felt, there was but one course open to me ;
I must listen at peace, though it certainly occurred to me that
his speech was madness, and not only that of passion, but
owing to a constant intercourse with lunatics. Had not his
attendance and familiar intercourse with his patients un-
balanced his brain, and led him to talk in this strange
manner? Yet as I gazed on him there was no want of
reason in his eye, no lack of the expression of sense and
the maturest reflection in his face. He spoke as a rational
man might speak. I held my breath and listened again.
"Attend and learn," he continued, to Promethia. "You
are my child, my creature ! Look into your past Had you
ever father or mother ? "
"Father!" she replied wistfully, after a blank silence;
"you are, I thought, my father — at least as father to me you
have ever stood. But what do I know of the relations of
father and child save what your books and words have taught
me ? Only I fed you are to me as a something I ought to
love and reverence and obey > and to you I look for guidance,
and as you bid me do, so I try to conduct myself. Mother 1
— ah, what is that ? — tell me. I sometimes feel the want
of something here," and she pressed her hand to her
heart " I have tried to make your wife love me a little^ but
she will not Oh, what is a mother ? Shall I never know one ?
And is it love or hate — strong hate — that would destroy me
because I love so much ?"
" Promethia, hear me out. You are not as the women of
earth — the women you read about, or hear of. You are
Promethia, and no other. What have you to do with the ties
of humanity ? They are nought to you."
She hung her head at these words, and I fancied I could
see a tear trickling down her cheek as she answered,
" And why am I to have none of the joys of women — tell
me ? What have I done ? From the first thing you told me
to do until now, have I ever disobeyed you ? Never. Ought
I not then to be as happy as others are ? or do you hate me
in the depth of your heart ?"
"Will she ever understand ?" he muttered to himself in a
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Promethia. 365
tone so low that I barely heard it. Then aloud, "My child,
be patient: of my love for you have no doubt, and I will
teach you what you are, and all you should and shall be.
See ! Are you not beautiful ? What but love would have made
you so?"
"I do not know," she answered musingly; "your wife
calls me a horror, and I have often thought she must be right.
But Mr. Harte says I am beautiful, and you say so too, and
something when I look at myself in the glass tells me the
same. Am I indeed like one of those lovely pictures on your
walls ? "
u Handsomer far : if Venus, the famous goddess of beauty
among the ancient Greeks, of whose history you read in that
book I gave you but last week, were to stand beside you, in
loveliness die would have no claim to precedence. Ah,
divine Promethia I no one with living passion in his veins will
call you anything but beautiful ; and for that fractious woman,
have no fear for her ; she is jealous of you."
** Ah ! she would kill me, — and I know not why. I nursed
her child ; I tried to win her love ; I thought she might be to
me the thing you call a mother ; she might have pity and
love me, and let me love her ; but she would not do so, and
she would kill me, I know, if she were not afraid — afraid of
you."
€t Do not fear her, Promethia, but listen to me. I cannot
bear this anxiety of my secret any longer. You must know
who and what you are, though the knowledge breaks both
our hearts. You are my creation — I made you."
There was a pause in the conversation. Promethia, who
had been listening more out of a mechanical impulse than
any desire to hear what he had to say, turned to him with an
appealing look in her eyes that I shall never forget — so much
of concentrated inquiry was there in it. He sat in his chair
calm and silent, waiting for her words, and apparently quite
at a loss to imagine what the result of his declaration would
be. I was paralysed, and could only listen in silence and
fearful anticipation of what was to follow.
He was the first to break into a further explanation.
" Try and realise the truth," he said. " Neither from the
affectionate bosom of a mother, nor the passionate love of a
father, sprang the beauties you possess ; but the hand of this
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366 S/. James's Magazine.
man fashioned every grace and endued every lineament with
the charms and powers it boasts of. If there is in you good,
to me, to my labour you owe it. If evil, on my head be the
misery and the retribution. I am not ashamed of my work.
God, whom they say was He who made the frame of man,
gave me the imagination to conceive, the power to will, and
the mind to execute the promptings of my brain. Let Him
look down on you and say whether His creature has abused
the trust of the talents confided to his care."
As he announced himself her maker, he rose slowly up,
proud and grand, gazing on the work of his hands as a sculptor
might gaze on the marble he has endued with lifelike imagery ;
but there was something more, something beyond all this,
something no human face ever yet bore in his expression, for
. * he loved his work not alone with the love of a creator, with
the love of the artist for the production of his art and genius,
but with the yearning love of man for the one woman his soul
. desires to claim as his own. He was avowedly her former,
her maker, her origin and creator, and while he felt for her
thus, he yet loved the work of his hands with the strong
passion which subjects the mind of the greatest of us to the
rule of a fairy touch, to the magic of a smile, to the abject
slavery of service to every whim of the adored woman. He
was her lover, and in that love was a world of mystery and
terror, a future not to be thought of, an awful darkness and
doubt. There he stood before her with the truth of his words
engraven on his resolute brow, and the strong utterance of his
lips leaving no doubt that what he said was to him the highest
truth.
For some time she neither moved, nor stirred, nor spoke.
Her breath seemed to come and go with difficulty, her head
bent a little forward, her heart stood still as if almost about
to suspend its action. The marble brow contracted in thought,
the lips closed as if to resolve upon something, the hands
clenched one another, the cheeks became first deadly white,
and then appeared to flush up : her whole frame was under-
going emotion. What course her suffering would take re-
mained undecided, uncertain. I waited breathlessly. At
length, with a slight half-suppressed cry, she flung herself at
full length on the ground at his feet, and sobbed out in broken
accents,
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Promethia. 367
" My father, my maker, my lord and master, have ^ pity,
have mercy, compassionate and forgive me ! What have I
done all this time that you have never told me the truth ?
How have I been blind, and never known that to thy hand,
thy love, I am indebted for life, for joy, for air and light
and motion, for the power to speak, and act, and think,
and be myself? Oh, father, have mercy, and visit not my
offence too heavily on me. How should I know unless you
told me ? And why did you not let me pay to you the rever-
ence which I owe ? As a child I have tried to love, obey,
and honour you ; and now as my maker I will give you
honour and reverence and obedience, and prayer and praise,
until you take me once more to your breast and say that my
sin is forgiven." /
She wept so copiously here that her further utterance was y$*?
choked; and he standing above her, proud and conscious of f^j n
his power though he was, could not but feel the terrible posi- uj ^ -
tion in which his avowal placed him. His brow became cold^pi „ .
with the damps of fear and terror — his hands worked nervously *?£ j**"
together — his lips trembled — his eyes grew unsteady in their v < ^
gaze, and I could see that he was only anxious to prevent her
saying more, and to induce her to rise. Did he at that moment
wish his words unsaid or his work undone? This was his
answer :
" Rise, rise, my Promethia. Do not pray to me, for you
are no more to praise me than the clay of which I formed
you. My brain, and these hands which fashioned your flesh
and gave it life, are nothing but instruments. The great God
may have given to me a power a little greater in some respects
than He vouchsafes to other men, and to the end I pursued
it — shall I be truthful? — more for my own vanity, for the
achievement of a great end, than love of you. But when you
grew to life, I loved and I now love you as I never loved any ,
other, as no man ever loved any woman. A lover is not worthy
worship. Arise, give me the love of your heart, and come
and rest for ever on the bosom that beats for you alone."
And partly she obeyed him, and with streaming eyes she
rose from her abject posture, but not to grant his passionate
request; for as she looked at him, and his ardent glance
dwelt on her so persuasively, a doubt arose in her mind, and
she expressed* it :
VOL. 1. Digitize(2d0GoOgIe
368 St. Jameses Magazine.
" Is it possible," she said, " that those hands formed me as
I am ? Is it true ? And if you are my creator, can a creator
love his creature as you say you love me ? Oh, unsay those
words, and let me be to you as I was, a good and affectionate
daughter. Let me love you as a child for ever."
" It is as I thought," he said gloomily, as he looked at her
and read the doubt in her heart "You do not believe I
made you ? Who would ? And yet have you any recollec-
tion of early youth, of growing from day to day — of friends,
of home, of parents, of early impressions of childhood's griefs
or joys ? Do you remember a time when to you were father
and mother, and brothers and sisters, when to you were "
" Oh, stop ! stop ! " she burst forth ; " these I never had,
these I never knew. But is it not possible that all were mine
once, and some terrible malady or illness made me forget
them ? Or is it not true that I am some hideous monster bred
of evil, and made but for misery, shame, and death ? "
"Hush," he said, gently interrupting her, and speaking
resolutely as he concluded ; " I will show you that which will
convince you I have spoken the truth."
Speaking thus, he led the way to the other end of the room,
and without effort moved aside the carpet and raised a trap
in the floor. He waited not a moment, but passed down it,
waving his hand to her to bid her attend his return.
. CHAPTER XIX.
THE IMAGE OF WAX.
She did not seem to look upon his sudden descent as anything
out of the common, so I presumed that the trap was often
used by him to gain admission to or as a means of exit from
her room. It was some long time before he returned, during
which anxious waiting Promethia stood by the side of the
yawning hole apparently lost in painful meditations. Pre-
sently he appeared again, carrying with him, or rather dragging
up the trap after him, a large box, looking at the distance
very much like a coffin. He got it into the room, and laying
it on the floor shut the trap carefully behind him.
" Promethia," he said, " I am about to show you what no
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\
Promethia. 369
human eye but mine and one other has ever seen, shall ever
see. It is to convince you whence your origin, and how you
became what you are, that I now take you into my confidence.
I have thought over it a long time, and I feel it is just to you
to let you know yourself and me. It is time we faced the
truth. Come, look : there is nothing to fear."
" Fear ! " she exclaimed proudly, eyeing him, " do you fear
anything, and am I not your creature ? "
As I heard her utter this sentiment, and saw the strong
look of firm and bold resolve with which she accompanied it,
I could not help making one moral reflection, — I did so in
reverence, — that if all created beings would but recollect how
the majesty of their Maker fears and dreads nothing, they
would soon banish from their hearts the coward sentiments
which so often disgrace man's nature and sully the nobility
of his actions.
But my attention was soon occupied by the events trans-
piring below, though I was gradually becoming painfully
aware of the extreme awkwardness of the position in which I
was lying. The doctor opened the chest he had brought by
pulling up the lid and dropping down the sides, giving to view
nothing less than the wax model I had seen in the haunted
room. Judge of my astonishment at the sight; but their
voices reached my ear, and my attention was with their con-
versation immediately.
" There," said he, " see the image in which I made you."
She came near. She looked at the model. There it was
as I had seen it, pale, lifelike, and marvellously natural. She
saw this, she took it all in, and then was suddenly struck with
the resemblance to herself. I was similarly affected at the
very same moment. The instant I caught sight of the model
lying there in the room into which I was gazing, I felt sure
the likeness was that of Promethia. Why was it I had not
recognised the truth before? When I had first seen her —
when at midnight she came into my room with her dim
candle and gazed at me from the foot of my bed, — I had re-
membered having seen something in form and features like
her before, but the events of the following day, and the love
which had grown up in my breast for her since then, had
blinded my eyes and obliterated the remembrance of the Thing
which had startled me so much. Now, as I saw her standing
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370 S/. Ja?ne?s Magazine.
there by the side of the model, as I compared the flesh-tints,
the hair, the eyes, the form and features, the whole became
perfectly plain to me, and Promethia was the living prototype
of the waxen model.
And she, standing there by the side of her image, appeared
at first shocked and ashamed to approach and look closely on
it ; but he urged her forward, and curiosity, of which she was
not altogether devoid, gradually prevailed over every other
sentiment. She went to it, and gazed steadfastly on the rigid
limbs and the lifelike but lifeless features. Then she turned
to the glass at the top of the room, and consulted its reflecting
surface ; and then she looked from her image in the glass to
the image of wax, and thence to him and back again. It
puzzled her. It was herself, and yet it was not. She did
not understand the meaning of the deathlike tint on the hair
and the lower limbs. To her nature was always a living
thing, and if this had no life could it ever have been the re-
semblance of herself? But the impression wore off as she
looked and wondered, and finally her mind was resolved to
accept the fact. Slowly she turned to the doctor, who stood
with eager gaze awaiting the result of the introduction, and
asked very gently,
" How did you make me from this ? "
A glance of terror, from which I could see her shrink away
and cower with fear, was the reply : the whole aspect of the
man changed, — he was no longer the lover or the tender
maker, but the merciless wretch bent on pursuing his own
purpose, untouched by remorse, unfettered by sense of right
or wrong. He spoke not, but turned and, taking the model
away, vanished down the trap. Promethia sank on her knees,
and waited his return in that position.
He came, closed the trap, and touched her on the shoulder.
His brow had cleared, his voice was soft.
"I have shown you the image in which I made you, darling;
and I have given to you a secret that no other human being
holds. It is safe with you. You would not betray your
'maker' ?"
" Betray you ! Am I not yours ? " she replied, rising and
placing her hand, half in tenderness, half in fear, on his
shoulder. " Am I not thy being, and art thou not my ruler
and lord, to do with me as thou wilt ? Forgive my asking
Promethia. 371
aught that I should not know. Let me love you, let me live
on only to obey your will I "
She turned her eyes imploringly on him, and her gentleness,
her passive obedience, her wish to please him as a child, awoke
within him all his passionate feeling once more.
" Promethia," he said, taking her two shoulders one in
each of his hands, and holding her some way from him,
"listen to me this night, and heed not the future. That
these hands formed you, and that this head conceived all
that is fair and beautiful and worthy in your being, is certain ;
but forget it Hear me and my love, and forget everything
but that you are a perfect woman and I, a loving man. Throw
to the winds the recollection of what we were. Give no more
thought on the past. Be only as you feel yourself at this moment
Lay those loving lips on mine, — clasp, those soft arms around my
neck, — give yourself up to me body and soul, and life and being.
Be mine own, Promethia, my darling, my life, my love, my
end, my own, my evermore perfect delight. Oh, Promethia,
my heart is all yours, and I love to madness. I love you as
I never loved woman, as I never shall love woman again. Be
mine, — you must, you shall ! "
She looked into his glowing eyes, she felt the hot breath
of his passionate appeal on her face, she drooped her eyes
beneath his gaze. What passed through her mind at that
moment? To him she owed everything, — life, existence,
beauty, all that woman cares for ; and she was human, very
human. Passion in her was strong, and had been born
with her birth : it was instinct within her, not educated and
not grown up as with us it grows. Neither had she had that
instruction in the control of passion which makes us able to
cope with stern temptation when it comes to us unawares.
It was true that to my loving appeal she had not listened,
but had I dared to address her as this man did ? No, my love
was quiet compared with this burning desire, this fierce and
rapturous demand from the man who stood there ready to
clasp her in his arms. I had rather stilled than awakened
her passion. I had failed to appeal to her heart, but he was
glowing with passionate desire, and she was full of the power
of life, of the warm rich blood on which passion lives, and
grows mighty, — of the desire which waxes greater as the
fever of wild burning joy mounts in the frame, and flies from.
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372 Si. James's Magazine.
limb to limb, from heart and bosom to every beating pulse
until the whole body is one glowing home of fiery longing to
enjoy. Her head drooped slightly forward to avoid the
intensity of his gaze, her breath came and went, and her frame
moved visibly beneath his strong grasp Would she yield
to his appeal ? I waited in an agony of suspense. I would
have given my life to be there and smite him from her side.
I would have broken down the ceiling in front of me and
dashed from the roof on to their heads if I dared, if I had had
the power. Nothing could have held me back but that the
terrible position in which I was forbade me to stir ; and my
tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, forbidding me to utter
a cry which might at least have broken their present intention.
My frame was iron-bound. I could do nothing, and I feared
to move, for the desire to behold everything, to lose no single
glance, no look, no word, was all-powerful, and held me
where I was, an observer, a silent witness. Oh, shame, shame
on me for ever, that I distrusted the purity of that woman !
— a being who had never known the taint of contact with
the children of men. But a moment more she let him detain
her — but a moment — until his passionate grasp slackened, and
his hold on her became less full of vital force ; then with one
quick turn she loosened herself from his control, and with
hands crossed, and a power of virgin modesty and grace on
her brow, she came close to him and said, —
"My maker, peace! I am thy child, thy creature, —
defile not the work of thy beloved hands." And as she
spoke she seized his hands and raised them to her lips
and kissed them, — not with passion, but with pure reverential
devotion.
He hesitated a moment, he gazed at her : there was no
resisting the majesty of her brow, the peace of her aspect
He gazed, and then the victory was won. He turned his
glowing eyes away, and sinking down in the chair, buried his
face in his hands against the cushion, and presently broke
forth—
" Oh, miserable man that I am. I have made thee and
loved thee, and now the work of my hands has become so
pleasing in my sight that I am losing my manhood and for-
getting everything in admiration of it. Promethia, daughter,
child, creature of my love, help me to be strong and acxom-
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Promethia. 373
plish for thee all that I have promised myself and you
to do ! *
To his appeal her reply was genuine :
" Father " she said in a touching voice, and kneeling by his
side, " love me as your child. Forgive all my faults, or look
on them as part of an erring nature, and pardon them because
I am but as you made me. Think no more of what you said
just now, but let me love you and be to you a child, a fond
and affectionate daughter for ever."
He looked at her earnestly, with a longing gaze ; he drank
in all the beauty of her fair face, and the glorious perfection
of her delicately moulded form — that form which beneath
the softness of womanly limb and outline was yet endued
with such marvellous power and strength, — that form so
desirable, so lovely, so richly endowed with nature's charms,
and with all its development for passion and passionate grati-
fication so sanctified by virgin purity and womanly modesty
and chastity. This must have been a fearful struggle, but he
conquered himself, and took her hand as he said,
" Not for me then is thy love, nor the love of child or wife ;
but be it so : I who have achieved the grandest conquest of
mind must be content to suffer alone to the end. If you are
happy, if from your beauty springs a race of beings man-
made, and unto man superior, as they must be, I shall not have
laboured in vain. My work shall now be finished. Oh, that
you may be happy if I succeed in the labour I am doing for
your sake only ! "
Drooping her head, she returned: "Why should you
wish for me other happiness than this? or why seek to
do for me more than you have already done ? If you
love me, and let me be to you all that a child should be, — if
you will let me make you comfortable, happy, cheerful, and
light of heart, I shall be content, — and so may you be, father."
He bowed his head, but answered in a determined manner,
" My life must know none of the rest of happiness, Pro-
methia. Forgive me that I made unworthy love to you
but now. It is past. My soul is once more strong, and I can
do my duty for you. I know full well you are not as other
women, and you must not be alone, — neither shall you be.
Besides, there are others to be thought of. The future is to
me as imperative as the present."
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374 &• James's Magazine.
" It is not for me to question your will," replied Profnethia,
kneeling at his feet again ; " but oh, do not distress yourself
with the thought that I am unhappy, for I can endure all if ft
be for your welfare or to save you pain. Believe me, I will
do so willingly. Let me live to make you happy if I can, my
father ; but if not, let me cease to be, and think of me no
more."
The expression of her face as she said these words was
touchingly beautiful. Never had I seen on woman's
Countenance so much tenderness, so much earnestness of
purpose, so deep a sentiment of self-sacrificing piety. Not
when the mother offers every sacrifice for the child of her
love, not when the husband willingly faces death for the wife,
not when the warrior dies in the foremost ranks for his country's
sake, not when the old man or woman lays down a grey and
honoured head and welcomes death to bring relief from misery
to those beloved ones to whom a parent's suffering is such
agony, has love like this been seen. No ! the look on her
face was more heavenly than anything of this kind ; it was
the expression of the love of a creature for a creator, the
delight to yield all at the feet of him to whom she owed it,
and give up her entire being to be dealt with as he should
wish ; it was the offering of love at the fountain of life, the
laying aside of self and selfishness and every consideration that
was not for him. And there she knelt for many a minute, while
he seemed distracted with wild and tumultuous thoughts, but at
last his resolve came, and he rose to his feet, and made her
rise too.
" It cannot be, Promethia. You must have love, and you
shall have it. If there were on earth one man who would
take you as you are, and live for you alone, I might give you
to him, but the world holds no man capable of such a course
of conduct, neither should I have the courage to give you to
him, lest he made you wretched in later time. No : what I
have promised to do shall be accomplished, and I will then
leave the result to fate. Ah, fate 1 — there is no such thing, my
child. The strong man makes his own fate, and defies the
chances of life. And I will be strong for your sake, now and
ever. Good-night, my child. A few days, and you shall
know and see all that I have done for you."
His last suggestions seemed to have set her mind working
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Promethia. 375
on a new train of ideas, for she stopped him with her hand on
his arm, —
" If what you said might be — if there were such a man
who would love me and be kind as you are, and knew all
that you have told me to-night, would that do, and would you
let me go to him?"
" It cannot be, child. Why dream of it ? I shall do better
for you than that"
" I fear it — I fear you will not ; for him you will not love
as you loved me, and love — I feel it is love alone — which gave
me what of good I possess. If love is wanting, and your
labour for me fails, how sad ! Nay, dear father, may you not
do as I asked ? "
" Who do you mean ?" he answered with sudden energy, —
"not Mr. Harte?"
I listened with breathless anxiety now. It was the first
time my name had been mentioned between them, in this
way.
" I did not say the name," she said, blushing, and turning
her head away. " I do not know what I have read, and what
you have spoken to me of, and called love ; but I know he is
kind, and was the first to tell me of — of — my looks — of my
being fair to the sight of others. He might learn to think
well of me, might he not ? And would he not do for me ?"
" Ah, Promethia, Promethia ! I tremble for the future of
your existence if I were gone, and you alone with a mortal
lover. No, no ; be guided by me, and let me try my best for
your happiness. Be joyful — be happy."
He kissed her on the forehead with the kiss of a parent,
and left the room, without another word.
I could not wait. Indeed, for the last few minutes I
had been suffering most excruciating pangs in consequence
of lying in such a painful position, and nothing but the
strongest curiosity had induced me to remain so long where
I was. Now I pushed my way back as well as I could, and
groped about the dark passage, until some noise I made
attracted the attention of my companion, when she struck
a light, and led the way from the singular hiding-place in
which I had overheard the foregoing conversation and wit-
nessed this strange scene.
Neither said a word to the other until we reached my room
376 Si. Janus* s Magazine.
and then I motioned her to come in and sit down. She
obeyed me in silence, and my lips opened first
CHAPTER XX.
rIT CANNOT BE."
"Am I dreaming? am I mad?" I exclaimed, pushing back
the hair from my brow. " Is it possible I have been listening
to the words of a man and woman ? or is this but the crea-
tion of fancy ? For pity's sake, tell me if you have any senses
left?"
I threw myself into a chair and covered my face with my
hands.
" Ah, Mr. Harte," rejoined my companion, with the slightest
touch of sarcasm in her voice and manner, " so the man who
would fear nothing has found something terrible at last Did
I not tell you that you were not strong enough to face the
terror of this thing ? And you faced it and live, but live with
the horror of it upon you."
Her words stung me into a sense of manhood. The thing
I had seen and heard was not true — it could not be. I had
been imposed upon by mere words and glamour. In a moment
I was upright again, and ready to meet all she had to say.
"Mrs. Delgardo," I began, "you think I am going to
believe all the nonsense your husband has been talking to
that poor young woman. You think fine words and the
exhibition of models can overcome my reason and make me
believe such rubbish as that he made her — a woman fashioned
by the hand of man ? Well, I am not going to do anything
of the kind. Your husband is a wicked impostor; and t<y
morrow I shall quit this house, and obtain assistance to remove
that poor girl from his power."
" Oh, no, no," she cried,— "not if you are a man. All that
you have seen — all that you have heard — is true as there is a
God above us. Stay here, for you are my only help. You
are the one man capable of saving me from a miserable end;
and you must, you will, be good to me, and remain."
She held up her hands to me in an imploring attitude, and
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Promelhia. 377
the tears rushed into her eyes, while her whole frame became
convulsed with a passion of wild entreaty.
"Hush!" I said, half-shocked at her demeanour; "your
husband is the proper person to guide and help you if you
are in difficulties. I had half forgotten that I am his guest,
and to entertain suspicion of him is wrong. I admit that
there is much which requires explanation, and the explanation
I give is not much to his credit. He is imposing on that
young woman for most ignoble ends, and in a mean and
despicable way ; but after all, that sin is human."
" Oh," she broke forth, " is it always so, and is he right ?
Many a time has he sheltered himself in the fact that nobody
will believe a thing so strange. Tell me, did you never read
in ancient stories of men who had usurped the Almighty's
privileges and made man in their own image? Is such a
thing incredible ? "
" Incredible ! I have heard such stories, but they are spun
from the brains of men or women who write for bread or
fame, or both. God forbid that any man should have such a
power, — and to make a woman too ! Why, we must both be
growing foolish to think of such a thing as possible, or in a
serious mood entertain the idea for a second."
" ' There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than
are dreamed of in your philosophy/" she returned. "Cannot
a thing be because you have no understanding of it, or because
it would violate your ideas of what limit man's wisdom, know-
ledge, and power should attain ? or is the fact of your mind
being unequal to the grasp of so great an idea to be taken as
conclusive against the truth of your own senses ?"
" Really, Mrs. Delgardo, I cannot follow you, or argue the
point To me the affair seems simple enough. That unfor-
tunate woman has been brought up with her mind a blank on
certain matters, for what purpose your husband knows best.
He has taken advantage of her ignorance and the possession
of a model which has been fashioned from her by a very
skilful artist, in order to persuade the girl that she is his
creation. The object may be beyond you and I, but the
facts speak for themselves. It is true the glamour of my
situation prevented me realising this at first, but reflection
has cleared the mist from my brain, and I see it all now."
" Like most men, you will be wise in your own conceit/'
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378 5/. James's Magazine.
she answered rudely. " You know nothing, and expect other
people to limit their intelligence to suit your ignorant statc.
I tell you there is no doubt about the origin of Promethia,
and bitterly will vou repent your scepticism when it is too
late."
"Why ?" I answered, laughing; "what have I to fear from
him or any man? Why should your husband injure me?
— unless, indeed, he found that I had been prying into his
secrets ; and then I think it would not be unnatural on his
part to wish to return the compliment ; I must expect that ;
but neither you nor Promethia will suffer for my sins at his
hands. At least, I hope not. Tell me why you made me
look at this sight."
" Fool ! " she exclaimed, clutching my arm with the vehe-
mence of an insane woman, " have you so little discernment
as to imagine I have done this for your sake ? Can you not
see that my love for my husband is the one thing for which I
exist ? Oh, Mr. Harte," she continued, breaking into tender-
ness, " I have wept for him till my eyes could shed no more
tears, and I have worn my knees bare with kneeling on the
ground to pray to the good God for mercy and forgiveness
for him and for his sins. He is the only man, the only
being I ever loved, except, alas! my poor lost baby; and
that I would have slain for his sake — at his word. You
shiver from me. It is true. Life of my own life, or any
•life, would have been as nothing to me, so that I could have
kept his love ; and now I live but on the hope that he may
one day return to me when that fearful being is no more
Do you understand something of my feelings — more than
you did before?"
Certainly her wild, passionate words taught me to compre-
hend her nature, and opened my eyes to the cause of her
enmity for poor Promethia ; but they did not convince me
that the doctor was the author of the girls existence in the
way his words and actions had implied, and I was not to be
so convinced.
" I have no doubt," I replied after a little pause, " that your
husband is to you all you say. I am glad it is so, for true
love is a grand and noble thing, and no man or woman can
be the worse for the indulgence of the sentiment if the object
be worthy. It may be, too, that your husband has taken a
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Promethia. 379
temporary fancy to this strange and interesting woman, but
that need not drive you into the wickedness of a desire to kill
her or him. He will get over his passion in time. I don't
think she gives him much encouragement."
"Mr. Harte, as God is my witness, as I hope for that
happiness in the world to come which His mercy has denied
to me here, you have listened to the truth about that thing —
I cannot call her woman. Do not reply till you have heard
me out. Three years ago we were as happy here as husband
and wife ever were. He had had this idea in his mind for
years, — for days and weeks and months whose tale I cannot
tell, — but it was dormant. At least, I had never heard him
mention it, save as a speculation. Then there came over him
a change, and he left me altogether. He remained in the
house, he attended to his patients, by day, but his nights
were given up to an unlawful, an unholy pursuit, and I was
forgotten as his wife. I was to him nothing at all. He hardly
came near me, and he seldom spoke. Imagine my feelings,
my griefs, and with the baby I have spoken to you of coming
into life. Shall I tell the truth ?— I played the spy and watched
him. Never shall the account of what I witnessed pass my
lips, but from the darkness of his crimes and the fearful
labours in which he occupied himself, that frame arose. He
made her on the model of a lovely figure which took birth
from the imagination of his mind. He made her, and he
gave her life."
She paused, evidently to see what effect her speech had
produced. I must confess to having been considerably im-
pressed by the earnestness and conviction of manner which
betrayed itself in every word she uttered ; but though I could
fully sympathise with the ideas which seemed to have fixed
themselves into her brain until they had driven reason, upon
this point, at least, away from it, I did not feel bound to
yield my common sense and pretend to credit this monstrous
story. That it suited her husband she should believe it, I
could readily understand, if he had any improper designs
upon the person of Promethia. I could well imagine that he
had been actuated by a desire to place her at his mercy, to
make her fear him. Knowing what his wife had just told me
of her great love, I could well appreciate his conduct, base
and unmanly though it was. He intended to make hei*
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38b 5/. James's Magazine.
believe there was nothing improper in his intercourse with
this woman (Promethia), but to render her completely igno-
rant of the true state of affairs by an extraordinary device.
Yet how could he imagine himself capable of imposing on
any reasoning being with such a tale ? and how was it he
had succeeded ? But now, supposing my theoretical expla-
nation of her ideas to be correct, the result showed he had
not ill-judged his wife, for she not only firmly believed in his
powers and actions, but was here trying to induce me to
believe in them too.
I did not go so far as to doubt that there had been some-
thing extraordinary or uncommon about the way in which
Promethia had come to be an inmate of the house; and
sometimes it occurred to me that she might be demented
upon certain matters, and hence under his care for special
and peculiar treatment. This idea did not raise him in my
estimation. To tamper with a patient under such circum-
stances was the act of a villain of the lowest type. Her
beauty and goodness only made his conduct worse, and no
punishment would be adequate to such an offence against
morality and social propriety. Still, men will allow their
passions to run riot with them where a beautiful woman
is concerned, and why should I award to him, Dr. Delgardo,
an immaculate character ?
While these thoughts passed through my brain, the doctor's
wife watched me steadily; but my looks gave her no en-
couragement She made another effort to speak, but I
interrupted her :
" Pardon me for preventing you from saying anything more
on this subject, Mrs. Delgardo. My mind is quite made up,
and not to be shaken. You see you are hardly able to judge
of the matter as I am. First of all, you are deeply interested
in your husband, and I quite believe every word you have
said of your love for him. I wish he deserved your affection
better, for such love is a priceless gift; but, then, strong
feelings are apt to make one partial. Also, you will re-
member that you have not been well, and that your mind
is disturbed by suffering. You have gone through great grief
and sorrow, and, forgive me for saying it, your intellect may
not be as vigorous as formerly. I regret very much having
to doubt your word. There is a good deal in what I saw and
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Promethia. 38 1
heard which requires explanation, but for all that I cannot
credit the story you would have me believe as true. It is
impossible."
She looked at me for one moment with wildly beseeching
eyes, and I would have given a great deal to save her pain
and agree with her ; indeed, I was thinking whether it might
not be as well for her sake to humour her with the idea that
she had convinced me, when she prevented any such course,
and concluded the matter for me. Suddenly sitting down by
the table, she folded her arms and dropped her head on them,
while a torrent- of tears rushed forth from her eyes, and her
breast heaved with convulsive sobs.
" Oh, why did you not leave me to die ? Why did you
ever save me ? Why did I ever return here at all ? I was
then in the lowest depths of misery; I was in the vilest
condition ; — and she and he together had driven me to it. I
was going to die, and forget my misery and disgrace in the
grave : it would soon have been over ; the fear of death was
already passed, and I faced the future with calmness and
serenity. Ten minutes longer in that room with the charcoal
and there would have been no more weeping, and no more
contention for the possession of the love which is mine own
by the strong right of my love and his duty. I was prepared
for death. You came, and took from me my last hope."
Here she raised her head, and looked at me with a sorrowing,
reproachful look through the tears which flooded her eyes,
and the sobs which made her utterance indistinct. "Why
did you not leave me to die in peace ? Was I too wretched
even for death? I came here to face her once more, and
then you promised me help. What help do you give me ?
You will not believe me; you will not believe your own
senses. Oh, why do I live ? Why will not death come ? "
She wrung her hands together in the intensity of her
emotion, and I could do nothing but stand still and keep
silent.
" You are a man, and you pretend to be strong and great,
and I dare say boast yourself noble. Can you do nothing but
stand and stare ?" Here she clenched her hands together,
and raised her head indignantly. " Look you, Mr. Harte, I
was not always as you see me now, nor ever before as you
saw me then. I was a happy girl, with a comfortable home
Digitized by VjOOQIC
382 67. James s Magazine.
and good parents, who loved me as they loved all that was
best and brightest in their hopes and aspirations. He came
and loved me, and I loved him. He was good then, — he
deserved such love. We were happy — oh, so happy — until
this shadow of a vile conceit fell upon our home. Is it
never to be removed ? Must I have that thing before me
until I die ? Oh, if it must be so, come death at once.
Mr. Harte, you are a man, a Christian. As you are a brother,
as you have a human soul, kill me now and let me have some
peace. I shall find rest with God."
There was no hypocrisy about her appeal. It was made
with a solemn earnestness, and her eyes besought mine to
sympathise with the sufferings of her soul. She meant her
prayer to be heard. She clasped her hands, and implored
me to do her will.
" The earth has a refuge for the most distressed," I ventured
to suggest to her, though I hardly knew what to say. u Seek
it. I am truly sorry for your misfortunes, but I believe with
a little patience they will pass. Certainly the way to bear
trouble is not this."
She looked up at me.
" What should I do, then ? " she asked with the simplicity
of a child, while all her wildness passed from her in a moment,
as she felt the strength of purpose in my voice.
" Leave your husband, and go to your friends for a time.
You must have many friends who would be glad to see
you. When your mind has had a little rest, return to him,
and you will find the shadow gone from your life, and the
love of your heart will be again welcome to him. A hard-
working man cannot do without a woman's gentleness, a
wife's love."
"And that woman," she exclaimed, — "that woman who
has already ruined my life, would gradually ruin his. No :
while she is here, I will never leave him again. Oh, Mr.
Harte, if you are a man, if you have one spark of humanity
in you, slay me, or give me your help to destroy that terrible
creature, that hideous monster, from amongst us."
I could not help smiling a littli, though I endeavoured to
conceal the expression of my face."
" And what do you think Promethia would say to that very
benevolent intention of yours ? "
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Promethia. 383
* She has no feelings. How can she have ? She is not a
woman : she is a fiend — a demon."
It was impossible, it was useless to argue with a woman
in this irrational frame of mind. I paced the room twice ere
it occurred to me that really the wisest course was to tempo-
rise with her now, and have a night for reflection. Nothing
could be better. To-morrow might enable me to see Pro-
methia, and get her advice. If she would fly with me, this
lady need have no further cause for apprehension. She
would be saved. I blamed myself for having listened to her
so long, and at once spoke my mind :
" Mrs. Delgardo, it is very late, and I am weary and tired
— you, too, require rest : will you let this matter stand over
till morning ? To-morrow, when I have thought about it, we
can see what had best be done. Rely on me so far, that
anything which an honourable man can do for a lady in
distress I will do, and more than this you cannot ask me ;
you would not, I am convinced, wish me to promise. Is this
satisfactory ? "
" It must be so, it must be so," she answered wearily ;
"though as I go to sleep it yyll be with a prayer on my
lips that the light of day may never again enter these
eyes."
She rose as she spoke thus, and moved wearily to the door.
"May God forgive you for those words and for such a
wish. Good-night," was my reply, as I closed the door
behind me and returned to my couch.
A sense of great weariness came over me when I was left
alone. She had taken from me all my vitality, and yet I felt
but little inclination to go to bed. My brain was in a fright-
fully disturbed and perplexed state ; and no wonder that this
was so. Though before her my manhood and my strong sense
of probability had forbidden me to entertain a doubt of the
reality of the explanation I had arranged for the clue to the
events I had witnessed and the conversation I had overheard,
yet when alone I began to think whether there had not been
some show of reason in what the unfortunate and unhappy
woman had urged. I had heard and read of such things as
man-made men. Never had the wildest legend given birth
to any story of a woman made by the hand of man. The
only myth approaching the conception was the one of Pyg-
VOL. I. DigigylbyCjCN
384 St. James's Magazine.
malion and Galatea, which had been made use of for stage
purposes in a fairly popular piece played a few years back,
and recently revived at a London theatre; but, then, the
Grecian myth, though pretty enough, had no suggestion of
reality about it. A goddess hearkened to the prayer of
Pygmalion, and gave him his request for life to be bestowed
on his statue, but he had nothing to do with the giving of
life to the statue he had learned to love. In the story of
Frankenstein, which at the moment came vividly before my
mind, a German student had made, not a man, but a monster,
and the authoress of the fiction had taken advantage of her
opportunity to inculcate many a highly moral lessoa But
this Promethia was no man-made monster. She was all
beauty, all grace ; no vivified statue, no work of a sculptor's
hand, could have equalled her in any one particular. I thought
of her as I had seen her that night in the full glow of the
firelight, with all her hair flowing in the richest luxuriance
around her form, and with the brightness of love — the pure
love for a being she regarded as her father — shining from
her eyes ; and I said in my heart that the world held nothing
more perfect or worthy of admiration, no woman more fitted
to receive the devotion of man. Was I, then, to believe so
wild a tale? Was not my explanation the more rational
one ? Man could do a great deal in this age — to some
extent his powers are limitless ; and Dr. Delgardo might
have acted on the girl's mind until he brought her into the
state which would suit his purpose, and make her amenable
to belief in his story ; but he could no more fabricate a human
being than pull down the moon or the stars to do his bidding.
The more I faced the idea, the more wildly improbable and
absurd did it appear.
The very thinking of the thing was foolish, unworthy of
me. Could she believe any such thing? Even after what
I had heard and seen, I doubted whether it was possible
for a man so to influence even the most impressionable
of womankind. Had she but appeared to believe him to
make him happy ? If so, what was the tie between them ?
Was he her father, and did he want her to think he had a
stronger right to her devotion than that of mortal love ? or
was he resolved to slay her if she refused his evil wish ? and
did he then intend to make her the means of her own destruc-
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Promethta.
385
tion, by persuading her into complete obedience to the will
of her self-constituted lord ?
If none of these conjectures hit the truth, what was his
object in telling her of her origin from his labour, and
showing her that model which was without doubt hers, and
taken from life with the most complete and perfect skill of
no mean artist? What was his reference to the other
labour ? What, in fact, was I to make of the conversation
from beginning to end ?
One other explanation, and only one, offered itself to me,
and it was this, that he had gone raving mad, that the pro-
prietor of the lunatic asylum was himself insane, and that
this powerful woman had been engaged as his keeper, whose
method of restraint and treatment lay in letting him have his
own way, and humouring to a certain extent all his ideas,
never mind how strange or extraordinary they happened to
be. This might account for much of her conduct, — and I
must confess that it was her conduct about which I felt the
strongest interest, for he had no great claim to my regard if
lie treated his wife as badly as my last visitor convinced me
he had done. Between these multifarious ideas, none of
which suited my mind exactly, I was in a helpless state of
confusion, and the weariness of body so far overcame all the
perplexities of brain that I fell fast asleep without knowing it,
and did not dream again.
{To be continued,)
Digitized by VjOOQIC
The Author of the Passion Music,
goljann feebagtian Bacf).
By ARCHIBALD GRANGER BOWIE.
jS the Passion Week approaches, recollections of the
great master-contrapuntist, or rather, more strictly
speaking, of some of his works, are again revived.
London. churches and halls will once more resound
wonderful and recondite harmonies, chorales, and
melodies contained in that greatest triumph yet achieved in
Church or sacred music, — the story of the Passion of our
Saviour, musically interpreted by Johann Sebastian Bach.
Those edifices will be thronged to their utmost capabilities
by crowds of eager listeners, the surest test of the appreciation
of such profound music by the general public. Sir Sterndale
Bennett it was who, many years ago, first attempted the
familiarisation of Bach's music in this country, but his efforts
met with very measured success. Not until more recent times
has the occult beauty of this class of music been fully recognised
or duly appreciated ; and it is perhaps owing to the more
persevering character of the later steps taken in this direction
that they have been repaid with unquestionably happier results
And now that a large number of the works of one of the most
talented musicians that has ever lived has become properly
invested with the merit and admiration so well deserved, and
draw together, as rightly they should, thousands and thousands
of persons capable of justly appreciating the intrinsic beauties
abounding therein, it may not — especially at a season like the
present — be undesirable briefly to pursue the life of him who
as yet is hardly known, except by mere name, to those that,
nevertheless, are his sincere admirers.
Bach was born at Eisenach, a small German town, on the
2 ist of March, 1685, a few weeks later than his great rival
Handel. He was, if we may so express it, the final product of
* Digitized by VjiVJVJJ,
The Author of the Passion Music. 387
a long course of formation, and his whole nature was imbued
with music through and through. As far back as his ancestor
in the fourth degree — Veit Bach — can be traced the germs of
that talent which, by a process of slow but natural growth,
ripened and ultimately fructified into the great and marvellous
genius of our subject. This Veit Bach was a baker of Presburg,
of whom the story is told that, loving music to such an extent,
he seldom or never went to the mill without his lute, which he
there played the while his corn was being ground. Curiously
prophetic was this simple habit of the future greatness in the
gentle and soothing art which destiny had in store for the
descendants of the harmonious baker ; for from him down to
Sebastian all the Bachs were skilled in music to a degree that
in many cases rose above the standard of common excellence ;
and the organ-lofts of the Thuringian towns were at this period
so overrun by members of the family, that for many years in
those parts " Bach " was a frequent term for an organist, whether
or not he had any kinship with the family represented by this
famous cognomen. Johann Ambrosius, Sebastian Bach's father,
too, was no exception to the common genius of the family,
owing as he did the means of existence to his situation as
Court musician at Eisenach. The ordinary laws of nature
therefore, were more than favourable to Sebastian's possession
of a thorough soul of music, and at an early age he showed
himself ready to claim his inheritance.
Having lost both his parents by the time he reached ten
years of age, he fell to the care of an elder brother, who was
organist at Ohrdruff, and who not only provided him with a
very liberal education, but, moreover, gave him musical instruc-
tion on the clavichord — an instrument at that time in general
use. But the rapid progress of Sebastian in this latter branch
of his studies astonished his tutelary brother more than it
pleased him, for he felt anxiety lest such precocity might
prove the ulterior ruin of his playing and — as was probably
already planned— his profession. He exerted his power, there-
fore, as he felt to be his duty, to retard Sebastian as much as
possible in his playing— a proceeding, however, greatly resisted
by our young composer, whose determination of character
snowed itself, even at this early age, as obstinate and persistent
as it was, perhaps in a lesser degree, in after-life. Occasional
quarrels between the otherwise affectionate brothers (g^Afe
388 Si. James* s Magazine.
result ; the irrepressible desire of the one to learn music of the
most difficult kind being ever met with the well-meant veto of
the other. The progressive spirit of the younger found it
difficult to brook the restrictions placed on him by the elder
Bach, and what he could not openly do he frequently did by
stealth. The following illustrates the artifices sometimes re-
sorted to by him in the attainment of his desires ; and although
the story is probably well known, yet it is quite worthy of
repetition. His brother possessed a volume of difficult music
by such men as Packselbel, Froberger, and others of fame in
their own day, which, to keep out of Sebastian's glutinous
reach, he locked up in a cupboard. But the door thereof was
of lattice-work, and Bach the younger, having set his heart on
the music, his fertile mind was not slow to discover that the
interstices were quite wide enough to admit his hand, so that
he was thereby enabled to withdraw and replace the book,
which was flexible and easy to roll up, at pleasure. He did
so until he had copied it all, having worked assiduously every
night by moonlight — all artificial light was denied him — for
six months. Just as he had completed his voluntary task, his
brother, alas ! discovered all, and cruelly disappointed him of
the fruits and pleasures he had hoped to reap from these
diligent but indiscreet labours by taking away the music so
laboriously copied ; the just reward, some will say, of such
deceit, without making excuse for the freshness and ardency
of a soul that was madly in love with the most gentle, the
most companionable, and the most charming of mistresses.
Not long after this circumstance Sebastian Bach became
wholly dependent on his own resources by the death of his
brother ; and his first move in consequence was to Liine-
burg, in the then Electorate of Hanover, attending there the
gymnasium or public school, which he was enabled to do by
joining the boy's choir at the St. Michael's Church, where his
fine soprano voice was highly valued. The loss, however, of
this voice shortly afterwards by attempting a part too high
for him obliged him to concentrate all his energy and talent
on the organ and pianoforte, on both of which instruments he
was already becoming a brilliant player. For this purpose he
repaired to Hamburg, where he received instruction of the
then celebrated organist Reinken, through whose excellent
tuition he was fortunate enough to obtain in 1703 — when
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
The Author of the Passion Music. 389
only eighteen — the post of Court Musician at Weimar. Such
easily attainable success was, however, no deterrent to Bach in
continuing his efforts for further improvement in his art, and
in this respect he showed a sagacity rarely to be found in one
so young, and which cannot be too well admired. While
others possessed of so great a talent would in all probability
have become proud and vain-glorious with like success, thereby
sowing the seeds of degeneration and corruption, our humble
and modest composer was content to accept the precept that
one must live and learn, which he strictly adhered to by court-
ing every opportunity of self-improvement that threw itself
in his way. Thus whilst in the service of the Weimar Court
we hear of him obtaining several months' leave of absence for
the sole purpose of hearing the fafr-famed Dietrich Buxtehude,
organist of St. Mary's Church, Liibeck, to whose performances
he was the secret and attentive listener daily for three months.
Bach's next appointment was as organist of the new church at
Arnstadt — a post he held, however, only little over two years,
as the congregation preferred the simple hymn tunes of the past
to his more talented but yet intricate compositions, which they
were somewhat slow of understanding or appreciating. About
this period Sebastian's wonderful musical genius first began
to develop, signs of which were unmistakably apparent in the
pieces he now wrote, amongst others a capriccio that has gained
considerable celebrity. At this time, too, he derived incalcu-
lable benefit from a self-imposed task of transcribing for the
pianoforte the violin concertos of Signor Vivaldi, a labour from
which, we are told, Bach first acquired a knowledge of the
way in which to work out ideas into pleasing combinations,
and of arranging modulations in proper order, a knowledge of
vast importance to him, insomuch that it enabled him to write
down his own ideas without the prior aid of any instrument.
The next scene of Bach's labours was Miihlhausen. His
stay at this place is chiefly memorable on account of the
publication of his first great work — a cantata in honour of the
municipality of the town ; and, secondly, for the acquaintance
which he here made with Johann Martin Schubart, which soon
ripened into a friendship that afterwards proved as lasting as
it was sincere. Nor should we omit to say that he here first
performed before the Duke of Weimar, whom he so greatly
pleased as subsequently to receive the appointment of Direc-
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
3 go St. Jameis Magazine.
tor of Court Concerts. While in the service of the Duke of
Weimar, Bach's labours were prodigious, no minute of his life
being ever wasted. He composed many of his most precious
works at the time, amongst these being the cantata <r Eine
Feste Burg," which he was required to prepare for the bi-
centenary festival, it being part of his duty to compose sacred
music for the Duke's chapel. And, besides conscientiously
fulfilling his arduous duties at the Weimar Court, we find him
devoting much of his leisure time to the instruction of young
musicians — instruction which proved eminently useful and
profitable to the pupils, and was the means of rearing a race
of excellent musicians. No further proof of this is wanting
than the fact that such well-known names as Clementi, Kramer,
Vogler, and Schubart (already mentioned), are to be found
amongst those he instructed.
. The general life of Bach at this time, as well as afterwards,
was very peaceful and very unostentatious. He had not the
slightest desire of ever being dragged before the footlights
of popular fame. On the contrary, he always fought shy of
anything approaching to notoriety or enthusiastic publicity.
He shunned the gratuitous homage which, as a rule, the
world seeks to pay to men of great genius in any profession ;
he only wished to pursue unmolested the art in which he
ever sought to perfect himself more and more that the
greater might be his power of showing gratitude to Him from
whom he had received such a priceless talent Bach was
eminently a religious man, and his innate feelings had
naturally a considerable — indeed powerful — influence over
the bent of his talent Of Church and sacred music yet
composed, there can be no doubt that he is the patriarch, so
to speak. Handel may have closely rivalled, but eertainly
never equalled him in this respect, at least. In point of
genial music, of pleasing harmonies, of charming melodies,
or of instrumental effect, Bach was probably eclipsed by the
greater talent of Handel ; but in deeper music — music that
thrills the whole frame, and appeals to the innermost soul
music that most closely accords with Mr. Carlyle's definition
of the art in general, that it "is a kind of articulate, unfathom-
able speech, which leads us to the edge of the infinite, and
lets us for moments gaze into that," — in such music does
Johann Sebastian Bach rest supreme, and stands alone in his
Digitized by UOOQ IC
The Author of the Passion Music. 391
reputation both as master and composer. In the lives of thsee
two great composers there are many points of resemblance.
Both were born in the same year— the one within less than
a month of the other ; both were possessed of equally deter-
mined spirits, illustrated in both cases by anecdotes very much
alike. That about Bach and the copied music is already
known ; in the case of Handel, the story runs that, being as
passionately fond of music as the former, yet forbidden to
play on the clavichord at all, he so far outwitted his relatives as
to get a friend to construct an instrument for him in a loft,
where, in his spare time, he indulged to his heart's content in
the forbidden fruit Another curious coincidence in the lives
of these men, too, is that in their closing years both were
visited with the same affliction — blindness, in each case, no
doubt, the indirect result of early imprudence in relation to
their art But if in such and other minor respects these
two great musicians had something akin between them, yet
the general tenor of their lives was altogether opposite.
Handel's was a restless, ambitious character, craving for
success, thirsting for popularity, and essaying the various
styles of his art in order to discover that by which his
desires could best be attained. Bach, on the other hand,
wanted peace and quietude, and his style was that which
naturally was born. His whole disposition was entirely anta-
gonistic to popularity or distinction ; and while his great
contemporary was making a brilliant display at the English
Court, being ftted by the noblest and wealthiest in the land,
the modest and retiring Bach was happy in the quiet village
life he led in Germany, his whole mind wrapped up in the one
aim of ennobling the service of his Church, whereby some
might be brought to a sense of the greatness of Him who is
the author of all. This voluntarily elected mode of life pro-
bably accounts for the obscurity in which his memory has
rested for so many years, but which has happily been rescued
from entire oblivion by faithful disciples of his own art
But if Sebastian Bach was unwilling to court distinction or
popularity, yet they sought him out, and forced him in a
measure from his quiet life. His fame as an organist rapidly
spread throughout Germany, and even came to the ears of
the august Frederick the Great, who, being a great musician
himself, displayed unwonted anxiety to hear Bach's pcr-
392 Si. Jatoefs Magazine.
formances, and an imperative demand soon following, which
overruled the reluctance at first displayed by our composer to
gratify the monarch's wishes, he betook himself, accompanied
by his son Friedemann, to Potsdam. When he arrived there
a concert was being held at the Court, and the King himself
was about to take up his flute to perform, when an officer
brought in a list of the strangers just arrived in the town ;
running hastily over it, he suddenly exclaimed, " Gentlemen,
old Bach is come." And " old Bach " was forthwith hastened
into the royal presence without even having time to change
his dusty travelling-dress, amidst a volley of pleasurable
acclamations. The concert was suspended, and Bach hurried
from room to room to try all the pianofortes in the palace —
numbering no less than fifteen — besides several organs on
which he also had to play. During the evening the King,
at Bach's request, set a subject for a fugue to be extemporized
on by him. A musician of no mean order, Frederick the
Great was able at once to grant the request, and our composer
accomplished his voluntary task to the intense satisfaction of
all present. The royal dilettante desired another fugue to be
played in six parts, and this, too, was immediately executed
to the extreme astonishment and pleasure of the audience.
On returning to Leipzig, we are told, Bach composed the
same fugue both in three and in six parts, and engraving it
himself, dedicated and forwarded it to the royal inventor,
under the title of " Musikalisches Opfer " (Musical Offering),
accompanied by a letter dated July, 1747, respectfully re-
questing that His Majesty might be pleased to honour his
small work with a gracious acceptance ; and stating his object
in thus preparing the fugue was "to exalt — though tmiy in one
small point — the praise of a monarch whose greatness and
might, as in all the arts of peace, so also in music, must be
admired and respected by all men." During his brief visit to
Potsdam, Frederick the Great paid Sebastian the greatest
honours, personally conducting him over the town and showing
him everything of worth and interest. And the monarch's
especial delight was to take Bach into any place where there
might be an organ and to make him play thereon. Such
honours and favours as he thus received must certainly have
formed a lasting source of pleasure to the great composer, who
in his short sojourn at the Prussian Court had probably re-
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
The Author of the Passion Music. 393
ceived more attention and courtesy than have many the half
of whose lifetime has been spent in toadyism upon royalty.
Bach's further life consists chiefly of a record of posts held
and declined, chief amongst which is to be noted his appoint-
ment as Kapell-meister to Prince Leopold of Anhalt Cothen,
whose sincere friendship he was fortunate enough to win. On
this prince's death he wrote a funeral cantata which has gained
no little fame on account of its containing some of the finest
double choruses Bach ever composed. In 1723 he was offered
and accepted the post of music-director and cantor at the St.
Thomas School, Leipzig, which he held until his death, besides
holding other posts, such as Kapell-meister to the Duke of
Weissenfels, and Court Musician to the King of Poland, Elector
of Saxony,_posts, however, that were little more than honorary.
The closing years of his life were not so peaceful as might
have been desired for one of normally such quiet habits.
Frequent discussions, oftentimes waxing hot, with the autho-
rities of the St Thomas School, who did not look with much
favour on Bach's compositions, and who appear to have
.behaved with some amount of inconsistency and inconsiderate-
ness towards him, and a great deal of domestic affliction
through the death of several members of his family, were
enough to embitter the composer's last years. But in addition
to this, the total blindness with which he was visited soon after
his return from Potsdam was the severest blow of all. And
so tardy was he in making up his mind to undergo an opera-
tion, that when he really tried the experiment it was fruitless
and he remained blind until within ten days of his death,
when sight returned to him in what must seem a miraculous
manner. But it was only the candle flaring up before going
out. On the 30th of July, 1750, at the age of sixty-five,
Johann Sebastian Bach took leave of this world.
There was little of adventure or of romance in the life of
Bach, as will have been seen, and he had no greater aim
than to be regarded as a peaceful, loyal, and esteemed citizen,
as he was. He married twice, and was father of a numerous
family ; by his first wife he had seven children, and by his
second thirteen. Of these, eleven were sons, who all became
professional musicians, and many of whom gained distinction
in the art. The best known is Karl Phillip Emmanuel, who
is remarkable not only for the peculiar genius and originality
Digitized by VjOOQIC
394 St. James's Magazine.
he displayed, but as well for the influence which his com-
positions have exercised upon the form and style of later
instrumental music. His style, full of elegance and novelty,
was that followed by Haydn and Mozart, who, studying it
attentively and giving greater breadth of development to it,
ultimately carried it out to perfection.
Concerning such of Bach's work as are more generally
known, opinion naturally varies very much, but there appears
to be tolerable unanimity in according to his vocal works the
first place, and by these his name will no doubt be immortalized
more than by any other of his compositions. And for this
statement there is good ground, since this class of his music
includes the funeral cantata already alluded to, some magni-
ficats and motets, several chorales, and above all the passion-
music in association with which the name of Bach is best
known to the English public.
This last-named work was certainly Bach's chef-cTceuvre^
and the five parts of which it consists were written during the
busiest years of his life. Of these, however, only two now
remain, namely, the passions according to the gospels of St.
Matthew and St. John. The latter was the first to which he
worked out a musical interpretation, the words being adapted
by himself, or under his immediate direction ; but the former
is that which is more generally liked on account of its greater
richness and finish. The first performance of the St. Matthew
passion in public took place on a Good Friday at the St.
Thomas Church, Leipzig: divided into two sections, the first
was performed before the sermon, and the second after. But
— oh strange freak of human judgment and criticism ! — it was
received with scarcely any favour; indeed, so little appreciation
did it meet with, that not until a hundred years afterwards
was it repeated, when at the instigation of Mendelssohn it was
performed in 1829 at the Berlin Academy. The words of
this work consist partly of verses taken from the twenty-sixth
and twenty-seventh chapters of St. Matthew's gospel, and of
verses written by one Henrici. The idea of setting this most
tragic theme to music is indeed a noble one, and it is scarcely
credible that the incomparable skill with which it was worked
out, the ingenuity displayed by the interweaving of the most
pleasing melodies with the most ravishing and recondite
harmonies, the dramatic recitatives, and the beauteous accom-
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
The Author of the Passson Music. 395
paniments, all wrought into such a combination as to give a
powerful and a vivid impression of the dread tale of the passion,
should have met with so little favour during the lifetime of
the wonderfully gifted composer. Yet it is consolation to
think that such treasures have not been allowed to sink alto-
gether into oblivion, a circumstance due alone to the discerning
judgment of Mendelssohn.
Although the total number of Bach's compositions is multi-
tudinous— a rough calculation giving it as about six hundred
— yet few of them are known out of Germany, and, indeed, a
large proportion is even unpublished. They comprise almost
every class of music, from scientific counterpoint down to comic
cantatas, polonaises, minuets, and rondos. At the Royal
Library in Berlin is to be found a book of music which
appears to have been composed by Bach for his second wife,
containing in great variety pieces of a lighter description, such
as we have alluded to, which goes to show that our composer,
in his aim to devote his talent to Church music, was in nowise
characterized by any of the Puritanic austerity so prevalent
at that time, but was quite as willing and ready to enliven
the domestic hearth by the genial aid of the same gift. Curious
to notice, among these pieces is a song with the English title,
" Edifying Thoughts of a Tobacco Smoker."
But the greater portion of Bach's compositions bear witness
to that characteristic feature which prevailed with him — the
using of his gift for the embellishment of the service and
worship of the great Giver. There is in them such depth of
feeling, such profound grandeur, and such soul-appealing tones,
that the listener cannot but be awed under their influence
even if his heart be not touched and softened by the sounds.
Shakspeare's famous lines could scarce be better applied than
to the person who is unmoved by the concord of sweet, grand
and awful sounds which abound in the most of Bach's works.
Such an one, assuredly,
" Is fit for treasons, strategems, and spoils ;
The motions of his heart are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus ;
Let no such man be trusted."
It is said that in his zeal for the Church, Bach used fre-
quently to confer with his minister on the subject of ennobling
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396 St. James's Magazine.
the service, and from this circumstance doubtless originated
many of those delightful motets, metres, magnificats, et<x,
which have come down to us as a legacy from the great master.
Amongst others of his best-known works must be mentioned
the " Wohltemperirte Clavier," or " Clavecin bien temper^"
which were preludes and fugues arranged in all the tones and
semitones, major and minor, composed as exercises for his
sons. They display deep learning and ingenuity on the part
of the composer, and must have cost him a vast amount of
work, but it must be admitted that they lack a certain degree
of that musical effect which to the art is so essential. Perhaps,
however, as these preludes and fugues were only designed as
exercises, this remark may be somewhat hypercritical.
As a player bojth on the organ and harpsichord, the fame
of Bach was great during his lifetime, but his favourite instru-
ment was the organ. This he mastered to perfection, and
Handel is the only man on record who can be said to have
been his rival. Dr. Burney tells us, on the authority of the
old harpsichord maker Kirkmann, that these two wonderful
musicians once met at the Cathedral of Salzburg ; but Bach's
two chief biographers, Mizler and Forkel — both qualified to
speak authoritatively on the subject — positively assert that the
two never came together. We may add that besides being a
talented player and composer, Bach was also the inventor of
two instruments — a fact not generally known. He invented
the lute-clavicymbal, which appears to have resembled a
piano, but was little used owing to the difficulty of tuning it ;
and the viola-pomposa, a species of violoncello, which also fell
into disuse, having to give way to the superior qualities of the
violoncello itself.
In concluding this short biographical sketch of Johann
Sebastian Bach, we have but to remark that only a sense of
the greatness of the composer and of the esteem in which so
talented a man must naturally be held, has urged us to venture
a paper on a subject in which the scantiness of incident and
events leaves so little material to work upon. Yet the life of
one whose works are year by year growing in popularity with
the musical public of this musical country, must without doubt
have an interest of its own, and the lack of material referred
to will no doubt be sufficient apology for the somewhat dull
and dry manner in which perhaps it has been told, but which
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The Author of the Passion Music. 397
the writer has done his best to enliven or enrich out of the
matter at his disposal. In Germany, Bach's life has been
written by such men as Forkel, Bitter, Spitta, etc., besides the
great memorial edition ; but in England no attempt has yet
been made, if we except the translation of Bitter's edition by
Mrs. Kay-Shuttleworth some years ago. These biographies
are the chief monuments serving to perpetuate the memory of
Bach in his own country, except a statue erected before the
St Thomas School, Leipzig, where he had worked longest, in
1842, mainly through the kindly exertions of Mendelssohn. It
may be observed, too, that many of his works are preserved in
the Royal Library, Berlin, and are still there to be seen. On
each of them is to be noticed the letters S.D.G., letters which
it was the curious but pretty custom of the composer to in-
scribe on every work of his own creation. These initials sum
up admirably the underlying current of Bach's whole exist-
ence. Soli Deo Gloria was his motto throughout life. If he
played, or if he composed, it was not simply to please men,
not alone for the creation of pleasant sounds, nor yet to exhibit
his powers of execution, creation, or taste, but chiefly and
particularly with the higher and nobler aim of magnifying
and causing homage to be rendered to Him whose faithful
servant he ever was.
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Song of the Morning.
(Written for> and inscribed to, Sveinbjorn Sveinbjornssun, la
x author of the " Soldier's Dreant? k Afirandu" etc.)
HE lark is floating on waves of song,
Unseen in the shining sky ;
On the wings of the wind are swept along
The strains that he pours on high ;
Like a seraph he sings, as his way he wings,
Of love, that can never die 1
For dreary night has drooped at last
In the arms of the virgin day :
The gloom that filled his face has passed
And faded far away,
As the pure dew fades on the pale flower blades
In the radiant morning ray I
The bee is filling the beauteous bowers
With the hum of his joyful lay ;
As he steals the sweets of the fragrant flowers,
His deep voice seems to say,
" Arise, O rose ! for the dark night goes
To the kingdoms of decay."
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" long of the Mornng.'
VO \. I.
izedfcjjG
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Song of the Morning. 399
The blackbird thrills the heart of morn
With the floods of his cloudless glee,
As he swings in the breeze on the tremulous thorn
In a musical ecstasy ;
While the fair ringdove is dreaming of love
In the depths of the dark fir tree.
The roses rise with dreamy sighs
From sadness of the night ;
The sweet birds sing, and the woodlands ring
With echoes of delight ;
The bright rills gleam and the rivers stream
Like rainbows on their way ;
All things rejoice with varied voice,
For night has passed away.
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Only a Music-Master.
By FANNY AIKIN-KORTRIGHT,
AUTHOR OF "ANNE SHERWOOD" "HE THAT OVERCOMETH," ETC.
CHAPTER XXI.
A lover's quarrel.
^OU have been in London, Valerio."
" In London, Madonna ? Not for more than
a year."
" You arc lying to me ! " cried Horatia, white
with passion. "You were in P L on the 1st of July.
I saw you enter a house there."
"Do I lie,— do I look like a liar? " cried Valerio, standing
in front of her, with a flushed face, and eyes that seemed to
shoot forth flames.
At] that moment Horatia looked like a panther, — as un-
womanly fierce, but still beautiful.
" Hypocrite ! " she cried, " base hypocrite ! You have
robbed me of the only treasures of my life ; destroyed every
proud hope for my days to come. Give me back what you
have stolen from me. Give it back, I say ! "
Valerio stood still and folded his arms on his bosom ;
the flames went out in his eyes, and nothing but mournful
tenderness lingered there, although his gaze steadily met that
of the infuriated woman. It was midnight, and they stood in
the haunted chamber of the old Manor House.
" I know all now," continued Horatia, " all. You reduced
yourself from affluence to penury by your low vices."
"I have always been poor," said Valerio, calmly. " If I
had not been "
" And you have always borne the name of Valerio, I sup-
pose ?" said Horatia, with a sneer.
" I have no right to any other."
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Only a Music-Master. 401
" Say you have forfeited your right — forfeited it by your
own disgraceful acts."
The young man spoke not a word ; but a shadow passed
over his eyes, and a white death-like hue came on his face.
Horatia was walking up and down the room with hasty steps,
her beautiful hands so tightly clasped together that her very
flesh seemed bruised. Suddenly she stopped and came close
up to Valerio. She made a strenuous effort to moderate her
passion.
" Valerio, what did I swear to you ? "
" To be faithful to me for ever, Madonna/'
" Will you give me back my promise ? "
" Never ! "
"Our compact is broken. I loved you, Valerio. I am
ashamed to say I loved you, for you are a poor, low, base
thing, that has given me a despicable rival, and my love has
turned into hate. I told you it would be so, Valerio. I told
you it would be so. Will you free me ? "
•* Never, never ! " repeated Valerio, with bloodless lips, and
looking in her face with an expression of intense anguish. " I
have never been faithltss to thee, Horatia, — I swear it by the
heavens above."
" Then I am mad !" exclaimed Horatia, pressing her hand
on her forehead. "And you were not in Hyde Park on the
1st of June? And you were not at this very hour on that
day in P L ?"
" I have never left this place while you were absent — never
seen P L in my life, as far as I remember. Ah,
Horatia, dearest," he continued, stretching out his arms to
her, "forget these wild fancies, and come back to me
unchanged."
" Oh, never ! never ! " exclaimed Horatia. " We are parted
now, Valerio — parted as surely as though a stone wall were
built up between us. Love is dead; confidence can never
again be restored. Once for all, give me back my freedom.
I will not be bound beneath this galling yoke ; I will go forth
in life unfettered."
Valerio's arms, which had been raised to embrace her, fell
powerless at his side.
" You must return my letters," said Horatia, more quietly.
•<Your letters! Give up your letters ! "
402 5/. James's Magazine.
" Yes ; don't you know such is the custom when people
break with each other ? "
" Horatia, you will kill me ! I shall die of misery and '
"Nonsense; people don't die of love, or hate, or despair,
in these days. You will comfort yourself. I too shall find
consolation, or — amusement ; the one, 1 suppose, is as good as
the other. When shall I have my letters ? "
" When I lie stiff and cold— not before."
" Romance ! Folly ! You will let me have them ! "
" I will think about it. But, mark me, Horatia, whatever
pride, passion, or levity may urge you to utter, our union is
eternal. Were I dead to-morrow, I should glide beside you
through your life ; and when you died, our spirits would mingle
into one. If I willed it, I could not free you now ; destiny
would be stronger than my will."
"Fate shall not conquer me," said Horatia, in the most
determined tone. " If I throw away life and soul together, I
will not give into childish superstition. I can be tied to no
man against my will. It is my will to be free, and free I will
be. When shall I have your answer about the letters ? "
" To-night is Saturday," said Valerio ; " look for me to-
morrow at the same hour.,, He turned, and was gone.
Horatia approached the cabinet, and drew forth the portrait
of Valerio. * He has some pride then, and with all his gentle-
ness a strong will. But he thinks to conquer me with threats.
Oh, coward heart, be still ! What have I more to fear? The
worst has fallen on me — the very worst : to have known the
height of human bliss, and then to sink into the depths of
misery. Well, I did it all myself ; and what have I to fear now ?
Exposure, to be made the mark of gibing tongues, to stand
evermore in a pillory! Well, if it must be, let it come —
shame, exposure, — all, all ! There is but one way to escape.
If I forsake him, his passion will betray me, if not his revenge.
Only one way — only one — and that — that leads into Ah,
what sound is that ? "
She approached the open window, and there floated in the
full sound of the church organ, a solemn strain that might
have calmed any spirit. It was Valerio, throwing his whole
soul into the music he woke, in the fond hope of touching
the heart of his still beloved Horatia.
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Only a Music-Master. 4°3
CHAPTER XXII.
THE RECONCILIATION.
HORATIA met Valerio with a smile ; it was not real, and
played like a ghastly flame over her white face ; but Valerio
believed in it, thought the gust of passion had blown by, and
he was already full of forgiveness.
Horatia looked wretched, but had never seemed so tender
and subdued, — it was almost like the earlier days of their
love, ere sin or sorrow had come to mar its brightness. The
autumn evenings were beginning to be chilly, and a bright
fire blazed on the large hearth in Horatia's private room.
The lamp burnt brightly, and cast a ruddy light around.
The whole scene was cheerful. Books and writing materials,
implements of woman's work, fruit, wine, and cakes, were
on the table.
" Home-like, is it not ? " said Horatia, as with a sort of
forced gaiety she smiled again, and motioned Valerio to sit
near her on the couch that was drawn towards the fire.
The past love quarrel seemed forgotten.
" I feel like a princess in an old turret, such as we read of
in crusading times," said Horatia; "and you are my page,
Luigi."
" You never called me thus before, Madonna."
" It is a pretty name — Luigi," said Horatia.
" Yes, thou art a princess, — only more beautiful, more
gracious than ever princess was ; and I am thy poor page,
only I must not sit beside thee, but lie at thy feet — thus ! " and
he slipped on to the tiger skin at her feet, only holding her
hand still in his, and leaning one arm lightly on her knee.
Horatia's hand lay among the clustering curls of the young
man's fafr head : his face was upturned, looking into hers.
" Luigi, thou art beautiful — How many hearts has thy beauty
broken?"
" None, Madonna. Tis but"a girlish fairness, a trick of look
that I would freely change to-morrow for a stalwart form and
a brown cheek. I never broke a heart, — none ever loved me
but thou, and my mother."
" And thou didst never love another ? "
" Thee and my mother — none other."
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4<H St. James's Magazine.
Koratia opened her lips to speak, and the red blood rushed
to her brow, but she restrained the coming words — " I love
thee well, Luigi — art thou happy?"
" Happy ? — truly am I. Last night was sad, Madonna : I
went into the church, and played and sung out of my very
soul — I looked towards thy window, saw the lights stream
through it, and knew my voice had reached thee. I have been
happy since : but one thing is wanting to me, Madonna ; —
thou canst grant it"
" Ask me, Luigi."
" Let our love be sanctified by a priest's blessing. I care
not how secretly it be kept. I will not mar thy peace by
noisy clamours to have a husband's right in the face of man.
I only want to feel that thou art mine as God's good gift.
Madonna, give me this happiness. I will honour, I will
worship thee, — love thee more I cannot. "
" Yalerio, listen ! — if all be well with us, say these words to
me again, a month, a week hence, and I will answer thee."
w llibu wilt say ' Yes ' — I know thou wilt say * Yes.' "
'I ,\yill think of it all, Valerio,— I will indeed ! "
" I shall be at peace, I shall be happy, in a month — per-
chance a week ? "
" Thou shalt, Valerio ;— but those letters ? "
" Those letters ! — wouldst thou have them still ? "
"Where are they?"
" Here," said Valerio, taking a little embroidered case from
his bosom.
" Thou wilt give them to me, Luigi ? " said Horatia in her
. softest tone, laying her hand on his.
" Thou wouldst not take my life Horatia ? — See ! "
The letters were enclosed in a sealed paper on which was
written, " Music in MS. for Miss Ormsby, in the event of my
death." " While I have life, they will lie in my bosom,
Madonna ; when I am dead, if I can die "
•' If thou canst ! — Hast thou a charmed life, Valerio ? "
" Yes, while I live on thy love ; — but if it died, Madonnar
I should die too, and my old mother would bring thee thy
letters. But let us not talk of death. To-night I feel im-
mortal as the stars."
" Hast thou never seen a star shoot down, Luigi ? "
Valerio shuddered.
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Only a Music-Master. 405
" Come," said Horatia, in a sprightlier tone ; "we have never
eaten together : sit by my side, at my little banquet, Luigi,,
and let us be children, playing at the Lord and Lady of
the Castle."
Valerio smiled brightly, and seated himself in one of the
carved oaken chairs with crimson cushions.
Together they eat of the cakes, and the rich fruits, laugh-
ing and talking like happy children.
"We will drink from one cup," said Horatia, holding a
goblet of wine to her lips. " To thy health, Luigi, — to thy
immortality ! "
"And to our coming bridal!" said Valerio, draining the
goblet dry.
" In a quarter of an hour it will be midnight," said
Horatia ; "you must say goodbye now, Luigi." -*
"Already!" f, s '
"It is but for a little while," said Horatia, there \vill/jfga.
to-morrow." \% ' \' :\ .
" Many to-morrows," said Valerio. [3
Together — with arms entwined — they reached the cas«Bgnf?
window. y*£: **>,,
" Go into the church as thou passest, Luigi, and play to
me ; — the wind comes this way, and I shall hear thee well."
M I will ; — the skies are too full of stars, for sleep to-night,
and my heart too full of sweet memories."
" Farewell, Valerio. I love thee ; I have never loved, never
shall love, any but thee, aught but thee. * Farewell ! "
•' Farewell, my own, my wife ! " cried Valerio fondly, as he
held her to his bosom.
Horatia clung to her lover as she never had clung before :
she held him still when he would have departed.
Suddenly the solemn church bell tolled slowly forth the
midnight hour.
" Thou must depart, Luigi ; but remember, remember I love
thee ! "
" We will live, we will die together ! " Valerio's face was
radiant with happiness as he lightly leapt through the
window.
He was gone. Horatia cried in a faint voice, " Luigi ! "
He turned—" My life, what wouldst thou ? "
" Nothing, nothing — thou must go ! "
•
<•*> N
406 S/. y antes* s Magazine.
At that instant one of the brightest stars shot down.
Horatia uttered a low cry. Not so Luigi, — he walked forward
with the courage that hope and love give. The moon came
forth, and troops of stars that looked new-born. Presently
from the near church came the swell of the organ, and a
voice that was all but divine, " Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata
mundi." Horatia knelt by the window with clasped hands,
her fair face bowed down. The music came floating in on the
air ; — presently it grew fainter, fainter. One o'clock pealed
sharply from the old church-tower ; — fainter and fainter grew
the music, — suddenly it ceased.
All was silence.
At that moment another star shot down.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A WEDDING PARTY.
Great were the preparations for Miss Grantley's wedding.
Sir Philip and Lady Grantley were rather encumbered by
debts, but it was generally kn'own that their daughter was
about to make a rich and splendid alliance, and this intel-
ligence did a great deal to revive the credit of the house of
Grantley.
The trousseau was splendid, — it usually is so when the
bride brings no portion, and has no ultimate expectations from
her own side of the house. It was marvellous how little
interest Ellen took in all the sayings and doings on the
grand occasion ; — always gentle and amiable, she who had
been wont to be enthusiastic about a ribbon or a feather,
and to dote on lace and diamonds, turned away from the
buzzing gossip of the bridesmaids and milliners, and shed
secret tears. Had Selmore loved her deeply and truly, his
tenderness would have roused his anxiety to discover the
cause of her dejection ; as it was, he scarcely noticed the
change in her manner or appearance, and was unstruck by
the pale cheek and the languid step of her whom all her
acquaintance envied. He loaded her with rich gifts, sur-
rounded her with delicate attentions, little thoughtful
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Only a Music-Master. 407
surprises, that awoke her gratitude, but called forth no throb
of affection or even of pleasure in her heart.
Lady Grantleys and Miss Wilton's very greatest pleasure
n the marriage between Ellen and Lord Selmore was in the
envy and jealousy of the disappointed.
How many fair aspirants hung their dejected heads on
retiring from the field whence they had been beaten by
Lady Grantleys skilful diplomacy! How many heart-
burnings had been caused by that paragraph in the Morning
Post, " We understand that a marriage is arranged between
Lord Selmore and the beautiful and accomplished daughter
of Sir Philip and Lady Grantley," etc.
Ah, that was a well-applied word, "arranged." The
marriage was arranged for both parties; — Lady Grantley,
beyond all, enjoyed the supposed disappointment and chagrin
of Horatia.
Mr. Ormsby's designs for his daughter's aggrandizement
had been so extremely transparent, that unconsciously to his
proud self he had become the jest and derision of the county,
since it had become known that his plans had miscarried.
" I should like to see how she takes it, Ellen/' were Lady
Grantley's words to her daughter on the eve of the wedding-
day, when sitting in the dressing-room of the latter, in the
midst of the bridal paraphernalia.
" Whom do you mean, mamma ? " asked Ellen listlessly.
" Horatia Ormsby, to be sure."
" Take what ? " said Ellen.
" Your having won the prize she tried so hard to get."
* Indeed, mamma, I think she never tried, or she must have
succeeded. She is too proud to court any man, and too
beautiful not to win him if she did court him."
" Nonsense, Ellen; there is no love lost between you ; I saw
you interchanging looks, and, if I mistake not, some not over-
pleasant words, at Lady Dynevor's."
" Indeed, mamma ! "
" Well, you know you don't like her."
" True, I don't like her ; she repulses me, and chills me by
her very look; but she is beautiful, and no one can deny
that."
" No more, no more trimming on that dress ! — what are you
thinking of, Clarisse ? "
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408 Si. Janus' s Magazine.
" Nothing, madame, — my lady, I will say."
"Your memory fails you, indeed, Clarisse," said Lady
Grantjey in her sharpest tone.
4< Mamma," interrupted Ellen, willing to spare the maid a
scolding for nothing, the administration of unmerited reproofs
being Lady Grantley's known safety valve for excited nerves
to which she was subject, " please don't let my own rooms be
altered or disturbed at all, at home."
"I must tell you frankly, Ellen, if you are thinking of
coming down to Well, Clarisse, why don't you work more
and listen less? Go away till I ring, — take your work with
you, or nothing will be ready,1 — how utterly wanting in
principle servants are ! I was going to remark, Ellen, that it
would not be possible for us to receive you and Selmore as
visitors, with all the train you'd bring with you, so that "
"Am I never to see my own home again? I shall be
wretched — oh, mamma ! "
" Really, my dear, I am ashamed of you ; what can you
want ? "
m " Some one to love me ! "
"Oh, dear! you've been reading romances — doesn't that
poor, weak, silly fellow love you — pray ? "
" I doubt it much ; I think he is marrying me from pity."
" And very kind he is. He is marrying you, and consider-
ing what the marriage brings, I think any reasonable woman
might be contented. Think of his loan to your father ! "
44 Oh, I know how good and generous he is : I am full of
remorse when 1 think of him."
" Then I would advise you to confine your attention to
your trousseau, and your coming establishment. If you want
to see Horatia, or to let Horatia see you — which I suppose
is the essential thing — you can invite her to see you when you
return from the honeymoon : many reasons oblige us to have
the wedding here, otherwise I should have liked her to see it,
beyond all things. Clarisse ! Clarisse ! come back and put
this lace on. I've measured it, so no one can take an inch
without my knowing it."
" I wish papa would come in," said Ellen.
Now papa was a shade less worldly and some shades kinder
than mamma, so no wonder Ellen longed for his coming in
to break the heartless monotony of the maternal lectures.
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Only a Music-Master. 409
The wedding morning dawned, and early was Ellen awoke
from an unrefrcshing slumber. The first thought was, of
course, that something had happened, or was going to happen
— a something half-sad, half-solemn, that left a heavy weight,
almost like a physical burden, on the heart. Was some one
she loved dead, dying, faithless ? What was it ?
It was the bright, good-humoured face of a bridesmaid that
hung over her, and through beaming smiles said merrily, <*Up,
ladybird, it is your wedding-day ! " Ellen shut her eyes,
pressed her hands on them, and shuddered. Her wedding-
day ! — and her bridegroom ! Ah, then she thought of her
light, foolish words, cnce spoken, "I should dote on being a
Countess." And then she thought on one of whom she had
now no right to think — the beautiful singer ; and she wished
for a humbler and a happier life than lay before her, though
it might be spent under a sparkling coronet. But she arose,
and stood passive and still while they dressed her, and decked
her with the wreath of pale buds and the bridal veil.
The bridesmaids, in their own pretty, coquettish dresses,
gathered round and kissed her, and prattled words she did
not hear.
The night before she had looked from her window and had
seen a star shoot down as the clock struck one : she haU seen
it with superstitious eyes ; and hence, perhaps, some of her
reluctance to greet the sunshine on her wedding-day.
The bride was ready a full hour before the time. She had
not seen her mother that day. Lady Grantley was busy with
her own toilet, and in giving directions to her household. Sir
Philip had looked into his daughter's dressing-room, praised
her looks, patted her cheek, and given a kiss, and a diamond
bracelet, which he would find it more convenient to pay for
a few years hence than now. Then Sir Philip had retired on
the points of his varnished boots, for he was quite an Adonis
in his way; and Ellen kissed her bridesmaids, and called
them pretty and kind, but asked for half an hour alone — to
think ! Well, they knew she had much to think of, and they
marvelled that with such diamonds, such a trousseau, such a
bridegroom, and such a title before her, she should keep from
exultation. At eleven the bridal party was assembled in the
drawing-room, — Sir Philip and Lady Grantley triumphant,
Lord Selmore dignified and composed, as though he were in
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410 Si. James's Magazine.
the habit of being married ; the groomsmen and bridesmaids
in earnest flirtations, and the ladies in general in a flutter of
expectation; but the bride— oh, she was in her room, alone —
thinking; examining her presents, said the light-hearted;
praying, thought the few that had a serious thought. They
went to the dressing-room; the door was locked; they spoke,
there was no reply ; knocked, but no answer to the summons
came. Lady Grantley changed colour, and bit her lips. Miss
Wilmot declared she heard no one stir within,— how should
she hear, as she was deaf? Ten minutes spent in useless
summonses — a mischief-loving bridesmaid ran down to the
assembled party, and told them the bride was asleep, or— had
eloped ! A darker shade passed over Lord Selmore's face,
though he tried to smile at the jest. Minute after minute
passed. Lady Grantley beckoned Sir Philip out : more time
a whispered consultation — a weak effort to open the .door.
Presently Lord Selmore stood beside the group at the bride s
door.
"What is this?" he asked^ almost sternly. "Are we at
child's play ?"
He despised his future father-in-law as a weak fop ; his
future mother-in-law, as a heartless intriguante.
" She must have fainted/' said Lady Grantley, though sadly
afraid that if her daughter had fainted it would offend Lord
Selmore.
"Half-past eleven! — we shall be too late I" groaned Sir
Philip.
" The door must be burst immediately," said Lord Selmore.
" If Ellen is ill, we are losing time."
" All shall be as you please, my lord," said Sir Philip with
the humblest acquiescence.
By this time others had arrived at the scene of action.
With a powerful stroke of the stalwart arm — it may be the
foot— Lord Selmore burst the barrier, and there they found,
in wild disorder, not only the presents and the trousseau
of the bride, but the wedding-dress, and the pure wreath of
orange blossoms, and the veil lying on the ground ; and she
who should have worn them— gone. Yes, Ellen was gone !
But how, when, where, or with whom ? The parents looked
at each other, and counted the consequences. The wedding
guests exchanged curious glances. The bridegroom descended
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Only a Music-Master. 4 1 1
to the drawing-room, took his hat, crumpled his white gloves,
and pushed them into his waistcoat-pocket, then walked coldly
out of the house, seeking no further explanation. He had
not entered his carriage ere Sir Philip pursued him, panting,
and too excited to speak. He laid his hand on his arm.
"Sir Philip!" said Lord Selmore coldly.
" My dear lord, we have found a — a little note — from that
silly child."
Lord Selmore held out his hand emphatically: he was
agitated : he had not loved Ellen, but he had been accustomed
to reckon on her heart, thoughts, fancy, her whole being, as
entirely his. There was a pang in losing a rich treasure of
love and devotion.
" No, no, my lord, you had better not see it."
" But I must and will, Sir Philip." He tore the note from
the feeble man's grasp.
" My dear Parents, — Forgive me. I could not go on deceiving
poor Lord Selmor£. How could I swear to love one for
whom I have no affection ? Don't think I have done anything
disgraceful : I have only gone home, where I will await your
orders. I am sorry to grieve you ; sorry to grieve Lord Sel-
more : he is infinitely good, but I don't love him, and I can't
act a lie all my life ! Ellen Grantley."
Lord Selmore spoke not a word, but his very lips became
livid.
" Don't distress yourself, my lord," said Sir Philip, simply.
" I'll go after her, and make her come back, and make her
marry you."
" Make her marry me ! Sir Philip ! I — pity you ! Good
CHAPTER ^XIV.
A STAR GONE OUT.
" Dead !— dead !— no, he is not, cannot be dead ! " gasped
Horatia.
"Indeed, Miss Ormsby, it's all true; the poor young man's,
dog made a terrible howling last night, and Mr. Valerio
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412 St. Jameses Magazine.
never went home all night* and the sexton went into the
church this morning, and found him with his head bowed
down on the organ keys and dead— quite dead. He had
been playing up to the last, for a man from the village passed
near the church and heard him at twelve o'clock. Well — he
was as handsome a young man as walked, if— — they say
there's to be an inquest, ma'am."
" An inquest!" repeated Horatia, hoarsely. " On whom? —
what are you talking of? "
"Oh, Miss Ormsby, didn't you hear me?— Mr. Valerio, the
music-master, ma'am— he's dead — died sudden-like — they
found him dead."
" You are lying to me," cried Horatia, pressing her hands
to her forehead. " I must send my father to me, Susan."
" Won't you rise first, Miss Ormsby ? "
" No, I am not well ; ask my father to come to me."
" But you are shivering, ma'am : won't you have some more
covering?"
" Shivering !— I am burning with fever. Tell my father to
come here directly."
" Shan't I send for the doctor ? "
" No, no ! — my father! my father !"
Mr. Ormsby came. "My dear child," cried he, "you are
ill."
"Very ill, sir! Kiss me, father, — it is nothing infectious.
Come close, quite close to me. Hold my hands in yours. I
am very ill, sir,— I think I shall die ! "
" Nonsense, my dear, don't talk of death ; you are young,
healthy, strong. My dear child, never, never talk of death ; it
saddens one's spirits dreadfully : you know I always like to
avoid disagreeable subjects. You have caught cold, have a
little fit of indigestion, or — something equally trifling ; you
must see the doctor. You have heard of this melancholy
occurrence, my dear. Unfortunate young man, highly re-
spectable, and unpresuming, — particularly well-behaved — at
least according to our experience. It can scarcely be a case
of suicide, I suppose ; poor— but not in distress, I believe. I
hear he has a mother. Poor young man ! There will be an
inquest. But let us dismiss these sad subjects ; don't dwell
on it. He certainly can't have been killed. What enemies
can he have had ? Of course there will be an examination
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Only a Music-Master. 413
into all the circumstances. He really was a very well-con-
ducted young man, — at least so far as we are concerned, —
never stepped out of his station. Ah, my child ! you are il
indeed — we must decidedly send for the doctor."
In fact, Horatia was groaning and writhing in agony.
Valerio dead ! The sun seemed blotted from the heavens.
Pride, anger, jealousy, all were dead with the dead love.
She covered her face with her hands, and bid them close the
shutters and draw the curtains, to shut out the light of day
Horatia's light had gone out in obscure darkness.
How many worlds would she have given to recall the past,
to bring him back ! How empty must life be without him, if
she lived; how dark death would be without his arm to
support her, and with such memories as filled her heart and
mind!
Poor Valerio ! and it seemed but yesterday, only yesterday,
that she had seen him first, in his boyish beauty, untouched
by sin or sorrow.
Mr.Ormsby at last was made to understand that his daughter
was dangerously ill — that there was but a step between her
and death. They called her illness by all sorts of names,
but finally they said it was brain-fever. She talked wildly,
raved incoherent nonsense ; but her father succeeded in pro-
curing for her a skilful doctor and a discreet nurse. Mr.
Ormsby was tenderly attached to Horatia. She was the one
passion of his life, after pride. He nursed her not only with
the assiduity of affection, but also as one in whom all his
future hopes centred, for he could not yet give up the trust
that had gilded his existence for so many years — the trust
that the old manor-house might through Horatia once more
rear its head in its old pride : so two interests almost equally
powerful, watched over the life that feebly struggled to keep
its hold on earth. The world looked on with more curiosity
than sympathy ; but a thick curtain was drawn over the stage
when the house of Ormsby was enacting its little drama, and
nothing transpired beyond the fact that Miss Ormsby had a
brain-fever, from over-much study. They said she had been
working very hard at Greek lately. There was no inquest
held on the remains of the unfortunate Valerio. The beau-
tiful face lay so calmly peaceful in death, that his sudden
decease could scarcely be attributed to any extraordinary
VOL. I. 3'tlZ29
414 St. Jamefs Magazine.
causes. Moreover, a neighbouring surgeon gave a certificate
stating that he had attended the deceased for disease of the
heart for some time, and that any momentary emotion, ex-
citement, or over- exertion, might have been expected to close
his life without a minute's warning. They carried the beau-
tiful singer to his grave in the village churchyard. His mother
was the sole mourner : she would fain have laid him in the
earth of a sunnier clime, but poor means will not always
second the longings of a tender heart.
There was a certain quiet dignity about the poor lady that
kept her from all clamorous grief. No one saw the tears she
shed, nor heard her groans, when the desire of her eyes was
taken from her at a stroke. The curate called and tried to
convert her, but she could not understand his teaching, the
point of which was that Luigi's death was the punishment of
her sins. Miss Grantley called, and soothed her with kindly
words, shedding tears with her tears ; she forced help upon
her even; and Valerio's mother refused nothing from those
gentle hands, whose very pressure showed that their hearts
held one chord in unison.
Miss Ormsby, though supposed to be dying, and dying of
brain-fever, wrote a few lines in a firm hand to the bereaved
mother : she was sorry to hear of her affliction, begged her
acceptance of a trifle, and would feel particularly obliged if
Signora Valerio would seek for and send her a small packet
of MS. music which poor Mr. Valerio had of hers, etc
The poor lady held the note long in her hand, and read it
again and again, repeating in a sort of mockery, " Poor Mr.
Valerio !" Then she rose up, and sent to Horatia the packet
found in her dead sons bosom, only adding the money Horatia
had sent, and the words, " Luigi Valerio's mother needs and
accepts no money from Miss Ortosby." So Horatia held
again the letters she had written in her imprudent days of
headlong passion. The only witness that could have borne
evidence of the past was sleeping silently under the turf, and
she, if she lived, was free to begin life again, unchallenged by
one reproach.
Ellen Grantley was broken-hearted.
So the first great act in the lives of these two women was
played out. In after-life they avoided each other's presence ;
or if they met, it was with cold words and averted looks. <
I
Only a Mush- Master. 415
A few days after the funeral of Valerio, a strange gentleman
arrived one evening, and departed at break of day, carrying
with him the bereaved mother. The little cottage was shut
up, and the weeds grew rank in the garden, while the spider
wove his web over the dusty panes. They talked of a new
organist; but Mr. Ormsby, moved by his daughter, refused to
second the plan. The organ was closed, and the old violon-
cellist triumphantly returned to his place and his discords in
the gallery. Only two missed the beautiful voice that had
been hushed — the one with tender regret — the other with a
passionate grief that long threatened reason, a grief the more
passionate because of its enforced concealment under a proud
cold aspect.
CHAPTER XXV.
A VISION.
HORATIA gave up her rooms in the haunted chambers, with-
out one word of remonstrance, when her father requested it.
She no longer chose solitude — she would have her apartments
close to his — she would seek excuses to keep near him, and
constantly run to him on the most trifling pretexts. But
ordinary society she avoided more than ever. She slowly
recovered from her illness, but her cheek was deadly pale
and her step feeble. Still, when she was seen, there was the
same indomitable pride of manner, the same haughtiness of
countenance and mien that had been wont to distinguish her.
Her heart was breaking, but her fair face wore a marble mask
that made her sorrow a solitary prisoner in her own bosom,
and torture would not wring a groan or a tear from her.
They came to her one day with an idle tale that the ghost
had been seen on the old terrace, wrapt in a dark cloak and
looking in at the window of her room. Horatia started a
little, almost imperceptibly, as the garrulous maid ran on
with her story, while she stood dressing her mistress's hair.
But she asked, with a smile, "What form did the ghost
take?"
" Oh, the poor music-master's, Miss Ormsby."
u Nonsense, Rachel. Think you the solemn dead^ve no
igi ize y g
416 Sf. James's Magazine.
better employment than to scare silly maids and grooms ?
You know I watched for one ghost that never appeared ; you
will see it will be the same with this. Bid the butler leave
the great hall-door unlocked to-night"
" Oh, pray, Miss Ormsby "
" Don't be silly, Rachel. Let my father hear nothing to
make him uneasy on my accomrt; but if any impostor is
working on the fears of the credulous, it is my firm resolve to
watch for and unmask him as he deserves."
At midnight Horatia walked boldly forth, and went com-
pletely round the terrace which surrounded the house. To
say she did not fear would be idle, — her heart beat with
nervous excitement, and her knees smote together ; but she
knew she had a part to act in life, and she knew its foun-
dation-stone would be firm resolve which must cast out fear.
The moon was rising when she came in sight of the window
through which Valerio had been wont to enter, when visiting
her on those evenings whose secrets of joy and misery lay
only between the buried dead and herself. She stood still
and pressed both her hands on her heart, as if to suppress the
bootless wish rising within her, that the tree of knowledge
had been left unplucked by her hand. Alas! what could
recall the irrevocable ? A shadow was thrown on the wall
of the terrace, and presently a figure emerged from some
previous concealment, and deliberately walking to the window
of the so-called haunted room, seemed to gaze into the gloom
within. It was no ghost apparently, but a creature of flesh
and blood wrapt in just such a cloak as Valerio had worn.
Presently the man left the window, strode hastily towards
the confines of the grounds, which it may be remembered
narrowed at that part, scaled a low wall, and entered the
churchyard, careering over tombstones and graves as though
they were no obstacle to his progress.
Horatias hands pressed yet more tightly on her heart — not
in fear, but in desperate anger. She was convinced that some
one was playing a trick to alarm the credulous, perhaps to
alarm herself; so she followed, followed still over the wall
which she had difficulty in surmounting, over tombstone and
grave, till she came up with the supposed impostor. He sat
himself down upon a grave whereon the turf was only just
beginning to spring, he threw down his hat, let the thick
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Only a Music- Master. 417
cloak fall from his shoulders, and raised his right hand till
it touched the headstone before him. The moon came forth
in her full splendour, and revealed every lineament in his face
— a face that once seen could never be forgotten. It was one
of rare beauty : clustering golden curls hung over a broad,
low brow; dark hazel eyes formed a contrast to the fair locks;
while the straight profile recalled one's dreams of the ideal of
the beautiful among the Greeks. A solemn sadness was on
the fair young face, and with one finger the youth was
tracing the name graven on the headstone. It was in large
characters —
LUIGI VALERIO.
For an instant every power of life seemed suspended in
Miss Ormsby. Her tongue was paralysed, — her heart stood
still. At last her quivering lips uttered, "Luigi, Luigi, I
meant to follow thee ! Pity me ! pity me ! "
The hand still pointed to the letters on the tombstone, the
eyes turned on Horatia with a cold, searching glance, but
there was neither recognition i*or compassion in their fixed
look.
CHAPTER XXVI.
ITHAMA TO HENRY.
"DearHenry, — I have something to say to you which looks so
vpry like reproof that I scarcely know how to put it in writing.
You know, dearest, that when it seemed necessary for your
best interests that you should leave B for London, I did
not say a word to oppose your plans. Had my heart broken,
had I died of grief at parting from you, I should still have
said ' Go/ for your interest and happiness have ever seemed
to me something too precious to put in the scales against my
inclinations.
" So you went — my love and blessing going with you, and
winged thoughts and prayers following you, for ever, for ever !
You obtained employment, and with all the ardour of hope
and inexperience you plunged heart and soul into your new
occupation. That time seems but yesterday, yet your plans
are already overthrown, and overthrown from some cause
which is a mystery to me. You have thrown up your occupa-
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4i8 5/. James's Magazine.
tion, you say, from neither weariness nor disgust ; you cannot,
will not, tell me why, yet you promised me perfect confidence!
I am young in years, but I am not a child whom you cannot
trust, a wayward girL who would not hear reason. Let me
know, I beseech you, let me know what phantom you are
pursuing; — if it is a woman, still let me know, that I may learn
betimes to be resigned. Forgive me if I am unreasonable,
but I did hope there were to be no secrets between us. While
I thought you happy and prosperous, I could hope on cheer-
fully ; but now my philosophy is all spent; each day is full of
wild fancies, each night of wilder dreams, in which I imagine
a thousand terrors. You will think me foolish, or even mad, but
sometimes I fancy the beautiful lady you admired, and whom
you followed one day, has something to do with the overthrow
of your plans. If it be so, tell me — tell me truly. I knbw I
have no beauty, perhaps not even one charm to win or keep a
heart ; but I feel that there is that within me which deserves
your love — more than a fair face.
" I can say no more — forgive me if I have said too much. I
am not myself to-night; my heart is very sad ; but I am, under
all circumstances and unchangeably yours, '• Ithama."
HENRY TEMPLE TO ITHAMA.
"Dearest Ithama, — You were ever good and trusting —
trust me still. All you say and feel is very natural — mystery
is painful I must seem unkind, but, alas, I cannot help myself.
When we parted, I thought I saw before me a clear, straight
path of matter-of-fact duties and employments— a quiet, dull
road, towards the end of which, nevertheless, gleamed a little
lamp like a distant star. Your hand held that lamp, and it
was enough to make a commonplace journey cheerful Now
I will acknowledge that much is changed in my course — nay,
everything except my deep love for you ; — that, nothing can
ever shake. Ithama ! Ithama my beloved ! how could you
doubt me ! I beseech you for one more proof of your affection :
restore me your confidence, but frankly, generously, ask me
for no solution of a mystery which I am not free to explain.
Alas, Ithama, I am sad at heart, and sadder, because I can
share my grief with no one, not even with the noble woman
who has been a mother to me ; not even with you who are as
part — and the best and purest part — of my own soul.
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Only a Music-Master. 419
" Of one thing be assured, that there breathes no woman
who could win me from you for a moment ; and come what
may, you can never have a rival in my heart You say you
have no charms. I see in you a thousand, and I love you
with all the strength of my soul.
11 1 am compelled to give up my occupation — compelled to
seek such as may leave me more master of my own time. I
have a work to do from which my coward nature shrinks, and
I must make it the one great business of my life. It must
occupy my thoughts, my hours, my energies ; it must some-
times cloud, though nothing can displace, your sweet image in
my soul. It is a god served against my will, a Moloch to
which my most cherished aspirations must be sacrificed. My
Ithama, your young years have already known care ! Why
am I destined to cloud them still further ? There are times
when I think my love must be fatal to you, — yours for me,
fatal to you equally ; yet I have not magnanimity to say to
you, ' Take back the precious gift — separate your now peaceful
life from the storms of mine.' I cannot say, ' Leave me alone
upon life's tempestuous ocean, and steer your own course into
a quiet river with flower-crowned banks/ I cannot say to
you, ' Forget me/ No— God forgive me, I must cry from the
depths of my soul, 'Cleave to me in faith, Ithama : if you leave
me, I perish. Cleave to me, and be the one solitary but
blessed oasis in my troubled existence/ My life is beset by
temptations, not such as hover around a young man's life
generally, but temptations darker, sadder, if possible. I must
have one beacon to fix my eye upon, one pure lamp to light
my path, lest I fall into an abyss of sin and misery. Write to
me often, Ithama; keep near to me in spirit; tell me that
you love me — tell it to me again and again, that I may feel the
link between me and heaven not quite severed, while one of
God's good angels, even in spirit, clasps my hand with a touch
that gives at once purity and strength.
"Farewell, my beloved! — pray for me, for I need your
prayers. I need not say, love my mother, for I know you
are of one heart and mind. Forgive and love me, though
you might well have given your heart's treasure to a worthier
man than " Henry Temple/'
{To be continued.}
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On Poetry.
By DAVID R. WILLIAMSON.
• OETRY is the expression of a musical mind — the
mirror of musical thought. The greatest poetical
ideas that have ever been produced, have been so
generated by their author, as to speak to us in
music. Who does not feel the splendour of a moonlight
night, and hear the sweetest and most touching trills of music
in the exquisite lines of Shakspeare,
" How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank " ?
Poetry then, is not only the expression of the beauty and
grandeur of external, but of the harmony of internal nature.
Hence it is ever overflowing with that quality which has
expressively been termed soul; for music, and poetry which
is the representation in visible form of musical thought, are
the most soul-like creations of the human mind. Nothing, it
appears to us, is perfect without music What gives their
peculiar captivation to the productions of Edmund Burke ?
The musical flow of his sentences, and the musical vein and
tendency of his thought What gives to the poems of Robert
Bums their charm and their animation ? The sweet yet
melancholy flood of music that flows through all his poems
and songs. The same may be said of the passionate lyrics of
Swinburne and of Robert Buchanan. No poetry can be a perfect
delineation of human or external nature, save that wliich is
born of genius, clothed in imagery, and, above all, steeped in
music. Music is ever a companion of imagination ; and with-
out that power true poetry cannot be called into existence.
The soul of nature is music, and it is the expression of that
soul which is the duty of poetry. Nature Twver appears in
the regions of verse without her singing robes. Nature is«w
beauteous and sorrowful ; and poetry cannot delineate nature
without being a clear reflection of her smiles and tears, happi-
ness and sorrow.
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On Poetry. 421
Here we may say something on the connection between
music and poetry. Poetry, in our opinion, is superior to music ;
it can both express the beauty of the summer grove, and the
voices of its warbling inhabitants : music, the latter alone. If
in the midst of the gloom of winter, we wish to experience the
sweetness, breathe the fragrance, and witness the splendour of
summer, all we have to do is to consult the " Seasons " of
Thomson. If, on the other hand, in the midst of the scorching
heat of summer, we long for a cooling vision of the dreamy
winter shower, we can find it vividly depicted in the chief
poem of David Gray, whose expressive description of the
falling snow carpeting the lea, and making the face of Nature
" the same, and not the same," is, we believe, one of the noblest
delineations of Nature in the English language. Poetry is
likewise superior to painting ; for the artist can only delineate
the external aspect of the scene, whereas the poet can transfer
not only the grandeur, but the melody and pure tranquillity
which pervade and fill it, with a sweetness which the artist is
incapable of expressing, to his glowing pages. More than
this, poetry transfers nothing beautiful or sublime in Nature
which it does not beautify or sublimate. The eye of inspira-
tion sheds a splendour over the lowly vale, and a grandeur on
the misty mountain, which they do not entirely possess.
Everything in Nature, to the poet's gaze, appears affected by
the heightening and illuminating influence of his own imagi-
nation. In his passionate pages, Nature's winter-gloom is
deepened, her summer splendour increased. Through the
peculiar influence of his own imagination the poet's hate is
extreme, his love passionate, his happiness rapture, his melan-
choly lifeless, his hope heavenly, his sadness despair. As
Tennyson finely expresses it, —
" The poet in golden clime was born
With golden stars above ;
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love."
True poetry is ever the outflow, fervent and sincere, of a deep
and passionate love of Nature. When the stream of poetry
is led into the land of satire or wit, it is diverted from its
natural course. A stream of beauty cannot harmonize with
aojr .SMMHKiuqg scene same that of jpraadenr. Take Ac
woodlands from the rivers, and where is their beauty ? Take
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423 5/. Jamefs Magazine.
the mountain from the valley, and where is its majesty?
Take satire from Butler, and where is his poetry ? Deprive
Byron of all his works save his * English Bards and Scotch
Reviewers/' and is he still a poet ? Is GifTord — most heartless
of critics — more than a poetaster ? Take Nature from Pope,
Wordsworth, Shakspeare, Burns, Thomson, Alex. Smith,
and Robert Buchanan, and particularly Shelley, and what
remains ? Something that the world may consider clever,
but not inspired, — results of cultivated intellect, not of genius.
Byron waxed most eloquent when fhe was within the thunder
of Velino or the shadows of the Alps ; Coleridge's grandest
poem was their effect upon his soul of exalted sublimity;
Burns could not compose " To Mary in Heaven " without the
influence of Nature ; without Nature, Wordsworth had not
been ; Robert Buchanan and Alex. Smith's finest productions
are transcriptions of Nature steeped in the beautifying springs
of music ; Tannahil's songs are full of the gloom of winter
mingled with the f hopefulness of spring and the happiness of
summer, fresh as the blooming rose, sad as the pensive snow-
drop ; Coleridge's nightingale sings the praises of the vernal
woods ; Shelley's skylark sings to heaven ; while Shakspeare
is Nature's philosopher, Thomson her favourite bard, and
Burke her favourite orator.
Poetry, being the production of the human mind, ought not
to, be egotistical, i.e.t revel in delineating commonplace ideas
regarding human life and character; it should be unselfish,
and delight rather in descriptions of the perfect beauty and
grandeur of external nature, than of the weakness, vain aspi-
rations, and sinful tendencies of man.
It would not be difficult to prove that admiration of God's
creations has produced more enduring poetry than condem-
nation of, or regard for, man's semi-evil, semi-good nature,
has ever effected. If poetry is a God-sent gift, is it to be
made use of by man for his own selfish purposes ? And that
verse which can treat of rioth^ng nobler or more enduring
than the hair, the eyes, and the cheeks of women (about
which nothing very original can now be said), should not be
encouraged. Love in poetry, or elsewhere, should not be a
mere fleshly passion — the mere reflection of a kiss ; it should
ever be, not a thing of the features, but of the heart. With
such voluptuous feelings as are expressed in oriental colouring
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On Poetry. 423
in the u Poems and Ballads, etc," of a living poet (who to be
truly great yet lacks the one thing needful — religious vene-
ration), we have no sympathy. True love is as pure as the
dewdrop of the morning ; innocent and yet inspiring as the
music of the birds when sunrise awakes them to sing its
glory. True poetry is ever earnest in spirit, and, above all,
religious in tendency. The poems of Shakspeare are ear-
nestly religious; Dante writes of the devil and his abode;
Milton revels in " Paradise Lost/' not because man lost it, but
because it was a noble subject for poetic contemplation;
Wordsworth was the chief eulogist of the creations of Omni-
potence ; Shelley, when he could not see the truth, satisfied
himself with describing the egotistical mist that prevented
him from perceiving it ; the sublime Hymn of Coleridge — in
our opinion a poet of almost Shakspearian power, who could
not have been expected to keep his gaze fixed on Parnassus
when he was over the eyes in the marsh of metaphysics — was
the result of veneration for the God-endowed majesty of the
Alps ; and James Thomson, whose " Seasons " is the finest
descriptive poem in the English language — ever delighted to
adorn the creations of his vivid imagination with the sparkling
and beautifying rays of veneration.
The same power which is required for the production of
great poetry is also requisite for its appreciation ; and appre-
ciation is always less a thing of the present than of the future.
It is not at all unlikely that a just verdict will not be pro-
nounced on many of our living writers till long after these
have been gathered unto their fathers. Genius often rises
majestically from the grave of a buried reputation as the sun
from the darkness of night. It is a good thing for some poets
that they have to die, otherwise would they never be fully
appreciated. Death gives an interest to life that it could not
otherwise possess. From his clammy hand he casts a radiance
over the landscape of a past existence. And genius never
appears more wonderful than when its possessor has passed
away. A striking instance of this is afforded by the " English
Bards and Scotch Reviewers." Byron when annihilating the
living, paused when the pale, passionless face of Henry Kirke
White illuminated his memory, to gaze with wonder and
admiration on the grandeur of the dead 1
We have said that imagination is absolutely necessary for
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424 Si. James's Magazine.
the appreciation of an original poem. It is the want of it
that often stands in the way of critical appreciation, and
therefore in the way of rising genius. Could the full beauty
of the "Maud" of Tennyson — the grandest love-poem in our
language — be seen unless by an imaginative mind ? And did
not that exquisite poem, when first published, confound the
great majority of its would-be critics, just because they had
not the power to understand it ? In this, we think, lies the
secret of the non-appreciation of " Paradise Lost," when it
first appeared. It was not till the imaginations of such men
as Addison were applied to that sublime poem that it took
its proper place in English literature. Intellect and imagi-
nation are somewhat different things; — let those who are
ambitious of poetic criticism remember this. The former is
a hill too low and common for the clouds of heaven to settle
upon it, yet sunny, far-extending, and inviting in aspect;
the latter a misty mountain, the crest of which nestling in
folding clouds, is only visible to the imaginative eye. In the
meantime we shall conclude with a quotation from George
Gilfillan, whose great imaginative power, first made evident
to the world in his " Gallery of Literary Portraits," but laterally
in a more powerful degree in " Night, a Poem," entitles him to
be heard on so important a subject as prosaic dissection of
works of genius by the auctioneers of the literary markets :
" Prosaic criticism of poetry is a nuisance which neither we
nor our fathers have been able to bear. A drunkard cursing
at the moon — a maniac foaming at some magnificent statue
which stands secure and safe above his reach — or a ruffian
crushing roses on his way to midnight plunder — is but a sad
type of the sad work which a clever but heartless and un-
imaginative critic often makes of the works of genius."
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Valentine Humfrey's Trust.
a fefcetcf) in fefjc Chapter**
By NORA NEVILLE.
CHAPTER V.
REJECTION.
^HE morning post brings a nice long letter, written
in mamma's own handwriting, assure proof that
her health and spirits are much improved.
At luncheon I propose that Mac and I shall
open a bottle of champagne in honour of the good news.
That exhilarating beverage mounts rapidly to Mac's head, so
I leave her snugly lying on the sofa, and start out for a
ramble.
A quarter of a mile distant from our house is a lovely shady
lane, extending the length of half a mile, and broken at various
distances by other paths diverging off, and leading to some of
the small hamlets in the neighbourhood. Down one of these
paths I wend my way till I come to a cross-road, and I
stand for quite five minutes considering which turning I shall
take.
I suppose some hidden power is always at work to influence
undecided people, for I suddenly determine to return by the
same road that I came. After retracing my steps about half-
way towards home, feeling rather tired, I sit down on a stile
to rest, when presently I see coming towards me in the distance
two figures which I have no difficulty in recognizing as those of
Valentine and Miss Cavendish.
People say, " Never act upon impulse," which axiom I carry
out, for instead of going forward to meet them, which is my
first idea, I get over the stile, and walk along the other side of
the hedge which divides the road they are in from the field.
Presently I can hear their voices, and at last they approach
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426 St. Jameis Magazine.
my hiding-place sufficiently close for me to distinguish what
they are saying, and their conversation runs as follows : —
"Then you are quite decided to go to town to-day, Lucille ."
" Yes, quite ; and I suppose you will soon follow me, unless
any special attraction keeps you here."
" Oh, no ! I have only one thing more to settle, so that
either way you may expect me some time on Saturday."
u Going away on Saturday/' I mutter to myself, " and this
is Thursday ; then I suppose I shall not see him again before
h^eaves."
«it here my reflections are cut short by Valentine's observa-
tion—
" Then as we shall meet again so soon, I'll say goodbye to
you Ijere, as I want to call upon the Brabazons, and you I
know have already been this afternoon."
With that he puts his arm round her waist and imprints a
kiss on her cheek, which she returns, saying,
" Then I shall expect to see your dear face again in two
days."
" Certainly not later, and in all probability to-morrow. At
all events, one more kiss, darling, and goodbye for the
present."
With that they part, and for some moments I stand motion-
less, as though I were rooted to the spot
At length I look up, and begin to wonder if I have been
dreaming; but their figures retreating different ways soon
show me that it is not a dream, but stern reality.
So I have only been building castles in the air all the time ;
and whilst I was vainly fancying that Valentine loved me, he
has been engaged to another girl, and she one that I know I
hate.
As I walk along, I try to persuade myself that I would not
have cared so much if he had proposed to Charlie Brown's
sister ; but when I come to look back, I find I alone am to
blame, for in my endeavours to flirt with him I have entangled
myself, whilst he is free and evidently heart-whole,
I walk as slowly as I can, in order that he may reach our
house and leave it again before I get back, for I feel quite
unequal to an interview with him. When I arrive home, I
inquire as calmly as possible if any one has called, and am
told—
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Valentine Humfrey* s Trust. 427
" Yes, Miss Cavendish and Captain Humfrey."
" Did they leave any message ? "
" Miss Cavendish came almost before you were out of sight,
and left her card ; but Captain Humfrey has only just gone,
and wished this letter to be delivered to you at once," with
which she (the servant) places the letter and a card, with
" P. P. C." on it, in my hand.
I say " Thank you," and hasten to my bedroom, locking the
door behind me.
It is some moments before I can gather courage to once
the envelope. When I do so, I am so surprised at the jtSn-
tents that I can scarcely credit my senses. The letter. Yuns
thus : — jt*i C
/ ^
"My dear Miss Brabazon, — I called upon you thistffter-
noon with the hope of finding you in, as that which I hW* UT
ask is much easier done in words than writing. You maj^&t
be aware that the dearest wish of your father's heart was to
see us united, — a wish which, I must add, is fully reciprocated
by my father. All the same, I should not be induced to ask
you to become my wife did I not feel towards you that love
and affection without which no marriage can be truly happy.
If you think you can trust your future welfare to me, I assure
you I shall consider myself in every way fortunate. In the
meantime, whatever your decision may be, I beg you to look
upon me ever as
" Your most sincere friend,
"Valentine Humfrey.
" N.B. — I leave here on Saturday, and hope you will grant
me an interview before my departure."
" Thus ends my romance," I exclaim, as I dash the letter
to the ground, and hastily take pen and paper to send the
reply. Not if I loved him ten times as much as I now do,
would I ever let him marry me out of pity or compulsion, and
in my fury I paint a distorted picture of the father and son
planning the letter, full well knowing what reply would be
received. Beside everything else I have still their words of
this afternoon ringing in my ears, " Goodbye, darling, — one
more kiss," and yet upon that he dares to make me an offer
of marriage.
My answer runs as follows : —
Digitized by VjOOQIC
428 St. James's Magazine,
" Miss Brabazon thanks Captain Humfrey for his generous
offer, which she begs to decline. The interview which he
requests will therefore be unnecessary."
For fear my determination may be shaken, I ring the bell,
and folding up the letter order the servant to take it at once
to Truro House, and " Don't wait for an answer," I say.
As I hear the street door close, I sink into a chair, and cry-
as though my heart would break, for the act of writing that
letter has proved to me how much I really love him, — indeed,
far too well to be wishful to marry him at the sacrifice of his
happiness. Undoubtedly he must have considered himself
bound to make me an offer of marriage, before he openly ex-
pressed his love for Lucille.
On JIacdragon entering my room some hours later, she
seems much alarmed at the change in my appearance, and
instantly inquires the cause.
Now as I do not intend her to know the truth I hastily
attribute it to over-fatigue.
" Because I was not with you," she exclaims, " I suppose
you have been walking miles instead of sitting at home as
other young ladies do to receive visitors."
" I'm sure I don't feel at all in the mood for visitors. And
I am glad I was not in when they called," I answer pettishly.
Miss Macdragon looks rather surprised at my peevish tone,
for as a rule she knows I am not given to that sort of thing ;
therefore, like a wise woman, she says nothing, and after a
dead silence has been maintained between us for five minutes,
which seem like hours, I rise, and hastily bidding her good-
night, retire to my room, though not to sleep.
By the next morning I am again completely prostrated, and
remain for several days in a state of apathy from which Mac
tries in vain to rouse me. All through the time I am haunted
by visions, sometimes of papa reproaching me, and at other
times Valentine telling me that I have blighted his life, and
imploring me to be his wife, till just as I am on the point of
saying " Yes," the vision fades, throwing me back qgain into
the deepest depths of despair.
At last the doctor's verdict goes forth :
" If she does not show signs of rapid improvement during
the next week, I am afraid I shall be powerless to act any
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Valentine Humfrey* s Ttust. 429
more in the matter, and she will have to be removed to some
place where she will be able to have further advice."
I inquire of Mac what he has said, and reluctantly enough
she tells me, adding that he asked her if I had any trouble on
my mind to account for the sudden relapse.
I consider within myself for some moments, and at last form
the determination to unburthen myself of my secret grief, so
I say,
" Will you please fetch my desk here ; * and when it is
brought, I open a secret drawer, and taking from it Valentine's
letter place it before her, saying,
" That little piece of paper will explain the cause of my
illness."
I watch Mac peruse the lines, and wh^n she places the letter
on my bed her face bears a look of wonderment as she says,
" Well, I must confess, Florence, that you are beyond all
comprehension. From the first moment you saw Captain
Humfrey, you tried all in your power to captivate him, and
judging by that letter, have succeeded thoroughly. That
you are much attached to him is also evident, for during
all your recent trouble the mention of his name has been
the only thing which has produced the slightest show of
interest from you; and now when you receive the highest
compliment it is in a man's power to pay, instead of finding
you as happy as you ought to be, you fling his offer of
marriage in my face, and refer me to that as the cause of your
illness."
Mac pauses and takes breath, after finishing a speech of
unusual length for her, then adds,
" Although, you look so sad over it, I presume you have
accepted him."
* Accepted him!" I exclaim. "No; if I were certain to
die an old maid, without even a pet cat for a friend, Captain
Valentine Humfrey shall never be my husband, so don't
attempt to argue the matter." (This in answer to a look of
protest from the faithful Mac.)
"Lord save us I" she says, taking no notice of my last imper-
tinent remark. " I do believe the child's going demented."
" Quite mistaken, Mac ; I was never saner in all my life
than when I sent a polite rejection of the offer, couched in
the elegant style imparted by my worthy perceptress."
vol. 1. Digitized $<CoogIe
43Q 5/. James* s Magazine*
And I bow to her ; but when I see her serioius countenance,
I can no longer contain myself, but burst into an uproarious
fit of laughter.
" Florence," says Mac, at last, when my boisterous mirth
comes to an end, " I am quite surprised at your levity ; for
indeed I fail to see anything to laugh at in rejecting the love
of a good man, which I am sure Valentine is." With that
she stalks out of the room, leaving me to my own devices
(which, by-the-bye; are not the most pleasant) for the remainder
of the evening.
CHAPTER VI.
REPARATION.
I WAKE, feeling very dull and dispirited, for my last evening's
solitude and a want of sleep through the long hours of the
night have not been conducive to improved spirits. At ten
o'clock my breakfast-tray appears, and by the side of my
plate lies a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. Ninety-
nine out of every hundred look at the address of a letter or
parcel before they open it, and meanwhile conjecture who it
can be from. I do the same, and failing to discover who is
my correspondent, proceed to eat my breakfast. Having
appeased my rather ravenous appetite, I take up the myste-
rious packet, open it, and this (to my astonishment) is what
J read : —
-"Miss Brabazon.,
" Madam, — On the part of Mr. William Humfrey,
^we have to place before you a few matters of which you
are at present in ignorance. Your maternal grandmother
bequeathed to you the sum of thirty thousand pounds,
appointing Mr. Humfrey and your late father joint trustees.
Your father speculated with the trust money, thus failing in
his duty towards you. His co-trustee, however, was equally
to blame, inasmuch that had he refused to sanction the manner
of investing the trust funds, your property, instead of being,
as it now is, reduced to seven thousand pounds, would and
ought to have been increased by that amount or more. In
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/
Valentine Humfreyys Trust. 431
the event of your marriage, your husband would naturally
demand of the surviving trustee a full account of how your
money had dwindled down to less than one-fourth of the
whole. To avoid any such unpleasantness, and in justice
to you, our client has this day given us instructions to make
you a deed of gift of all his property, personal and otherwise,
with the exception of an annuity of two hundred and fifty
pounds for Mrs. Humfrey, and a thousand pounds on her
wedding-day to his daughter, Miss Lucille Cavendish. For
himself or Captain Valentine he reserves nothing.
" Mr. Humfrey desires us to say that had you become his
-daughter-in-law, which he at one time believed would be the
-case, he should not have acted in this manner ; but having
found the improbability of that arrangement, he considers it
right and fair to make you the only reparation in his power.
Mr. and Mrs. Humfrey leave for abroad this evening, and
Captain Valentine will follow them as soon as he has sold
his commission and settled his affairs in England.
"We shall be most happy to transact any business you may
require, And remain, Madam,
" Yours obediently,
" Mortgage & Transfer."
On concluding the perusal of the letter, I give a violent tug
at the bell, and when the servant appears, exclaim, " Send
Miss Macdragon to me at once ; " and when that worthy
arrives I forget all about our last night's tiff, and throwing
the packet at her, say, " Make haste and read it, Mac, and
tell me what it all means, for I don't understand one word
of it"
Mac leisurely takes out her spectacles and begins to read,
every now and then muttering in an undertone, " Dear me !
How wonderful! Poor things!" (this last observation in
reference I suppose to the Humfreys' departure,) and so on.
At last she looks up, and says,
" I suppose I ought to congratulate you on your accession
to so large a property, Florence ? "
" Bother your congratulations!" I exclaim. "As I don't
intend to accept the money, congratulations are needless.
What I must find out is what they mean by calling Lucille
Cavendish Mr. Humfrey's daughter.
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432 5/. Jameses Magazine.
"Valentine told me his uncle had adopted her, so I sup*
pose that is how the mistake has arisen ; anyhow I will send
a line to Messrs. Mortgage and Transfer, begging an ex-
planation."
Which determination I carry out at once by sending them
a ladylike little note requesting an answer at their earliest con-
venience. As soon as it is posted I begin to wish the hours
away, and as the postman knocks at the door I hurry down
to see if it be the reply, though my common sense ought to
tell me that my letter cannot possibly have reached its desi-
tination. I pass the whole of the day in the most restless
manner, wandering to and fro, and the next day drags along
much in a similar way, till just as we are sitting at our after-
noon tea the servant brings in a letter bearing the unmistake-
able office look. I rush across the room, and snatching it
from her, tear it open. As soon as I have mastered the con-
tents, I give one shout of joy, and fling it into Mac's lap,
saying,
" Read that, Mac, and I'll accept any congratulations you
may have td offer now."
She reads the letter, which runs : —
"Madam, — We have the honour of informing you that
Miss Lucille Cavendish is Mr. Humfrey's only daughter.
On her adoption by her uncle, she took, at his express desire,
his name in addition to her own. By the next delivery you
will receive your deeds, of which we beg an acknowledgment.
As we alone are cognizant of Captain Humfrey's whereabouts,,
should you have any communication to make to him, we shall
be most happy to forward it.
" Faithfully yours,
"Mortgage & Transfer,
" Solicitors:9
"You'll have to give up hating Lucille," says Mac, as she
carefully folds up the letter and places it on the table ; u it
will never do to begin by disliking your husband's relations."
" Who says he will be my husband ? YouVe soon forgotten
my intention of dying an old maid rather than marrying him."
"Yes, my dear," laughs Mac, "I have forgotten, for I
should indeed have enough to remember if I stored up all the
stupid nonspnse you, and all girls like you, talk."
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Valentine Hum/rey's Trust. 433
By the next post comes a huge packet of parchment and
red tape, and I open it more for the curiosity of seeing what
a deed of gift looks like than any personal interest in the
matter ; but having carefully read two pages, the principal
parts of which are " the above mentioned," 4< the undersigned,"
and lots of " whereases/' " therein contained," etc., I throw it
aside in dismay, and commence to carry out the plan which I
formed on receiving the first communication from the lawyers.
I get a moderate-sized cardboard box, and picking up the
deeds proceed leisurely to cut them up in- the smallest pieces
possible. In the midst of my operations Mac enters, and
asking " What I am doing ? " gets for answer,
" Come and look for yourself."
She utters a shriek of alarm as she sees the work of
destruction going on, but I continue my work, saying,
" Please don't look so horrified. I've rejected the one thing
in the world worth having ; but all the same, I am not mean
enough to accept such a sacrifice from them or any one else."'
As soon as the parchment and tapes are all chopped up
together, I fill the box, and packing it neatly, address it to
the solicitors, requesting them to forward it at once to Valen-
tine. By the same post I send him the following note : —
" In refusing your offer of marriage, I did that which I
considered right to you and myself, as I did not wish, nor
could I accept, the sacrifice of the probable loss of your
happiness for life, to gratify the whims (as I believed) of both
©ur fathers. I have now to reject a second offer, with many
thanks for the noble spirit in which it has been made. Pray
understand that under no circumstances whatever could I be
induced to become party to such an arrangement.
" Florence."
Having, as I believed, finished with the whole affair, I sit
down, metaphorically speaking, and wait for some fresh
excitement to turn up ; and I do not have long to wait, for
two days after, just as I am thinking of taking a siesta, the
(hall bell rings, and on looking out of the window I perceive
Valentine descending from a hired conveyance as though
he had just arrived by the train. I have time to turn to the
glass and arrange my hair and ribbons, when he is announced.
Digitized by VjOOQIC
434 St. Jameses Magazine.
and I walk towards him with as much calmness as I can
assume.
After the usual commonplaces have been exchanged, I say-
in the stiffest manner possible— just as though I didn't know, —
" To what am I indebted for the honour of this visit ? "
" Cannot you guess, Miss Brabazon ? "
w No, of course I can't ! " I exclaim.
" Then I must explain more clearly to you, he says, how
utterly impossible it is for this business to remain as you
desire."
He pauses to take breath, and resumes : " My father, in
making a deed of gift to you of almost all his property, only
did that which any and every right-minded man would do
under the circumstances. You have been wronged, deeply
wronged and you must not refuse my father's wish and
desire to repair the injury done to you."
" Oh," I rejoin, " if that is all you have come about, you
might just as well have remained where you were* When
once I say no, I never change.*'
He takes my hand, and says,
" Are you as unchangeable on all other points as on this
one, Florrie?"
" If you will release my hand, I will try to answer your
question."
He does as I wish, and then I say,
" No, I don't think I am. But in this one particular case I
wouldn't change my mind for all the world. A nice thing,
indeed, if it got known ! — why, I should never get any one to-
speak to me again,— they would be disgusted, and quite
right too."
"You see," says Valentine, "you are wilfully blinding your
eyes to one fact."
"And that is?"
" That when you marry "
" Which, by-the-bye, is a contingency you need not provide
against, unless "
" Unless ! " and he again takes my hand. u Is it unless I
repeat by word of month the question I once asked you in
writing ? "
I do not reply, and after waiting about three seconds he
says,
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i
Valentine Hum/reyys Trust.
435
u Look here, Florrie, — if you won't have me, send me away
at once, but for God's sake, darling, don't keep me in
suspense. I can stand anything but that."
" I won't keep you in suspense," I say, placing my hand
in his; "you may take me as your answer;" and with that
he folds me in his arms, and gives me one long, loving kiss.
When I succeed in freeing myself from his embrace, I give
a most melancholy sigh, and say,
" Oh, Val ! if it had not been for your sister, we might have
been as happy weeks ago as we now are."
u Then my pet was jealous of her after all ! but L knew it
would end all right. You see, from the first hour I saw you
I was resolved to win you, but as time went on I found you
so difficile (as the French say) that I thought I would try
another way, so I invited Lucille down, simply requesting her
to keep back the fact of relationship, but assigning no reason
to her. And now having told all my secret to you, have you
none to impart to me ? "
" Yes, plenty," I say ; " but mine must be reserved till '
" Till we're married, I suppose ! I will now go and send a
telegram to my parents, but first I swear by your rosy lips,"
— and he stoops to kiss them, — " that I will take better care
of my trust than my father did of his."
And he has kept his oath, for a happier couple do not exist
than Captain and Mrs. Valentine Humfrey.
Need I add that he did not sell out ? — and for the deed of
gift was substituted one of settlement.
THE END.
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Our Modern Poets.
No. VIII.— Algernon Cfjacleg fetointotrne*
By THOMAS BAYNE.
ITRONG and well-marked individuality, depth and
penetration of insight, breadth and volume of
sympathy, great intensity of feeling and imagi-
native force, are characteristics that keep Mr.
Swinburne well to the front among modern poets. There is
a decision in his movements that arrests the attention, and
in his method a rare earnestness and vigour that sustain the
interest It matters little whether the reader agree with him
or not, the two are unlikely to part company till the poet
has had his say. It must be allowed, too, that, while resem-
bling the typical "Ancient Mariner" in this essential enthralling
power, Mr. Swinburne resembles him still further in his strong
tendency towards prolixity of treatment. Like the wedding
guest, the reader of * Songs before Sunrise" and " Bothwell"
is fain at intervals to remind the author that there are other
matters of pressing interest besides these — that in fact these
on the whole may fairly be taken for granted in the mean-
time, while the others get their due attention. Mr. Swinburne
has a singular power over words, and ,an exquisite gift of
melody, but his own delight in both is apt to produce a
euphemistic result and a sense of plethora in the reader. He
tends to say all that is possible, instead of keeping to what
is proper and sufficient. Thus it is questionable whether
any one will ever read the " Queen Mother " from first to last,
or try to enter into all the involutions of detail that weigh
down the "Songs before Sunrise," while "Bothwell" would
certainly gain in strength and artistic beauty, if reduced by
a third or more of its present bulk.
It is part of our poet's creed that Victor Hugo and Walt
Whitman are at this moment two of the most admirable
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Our Modern Poets. 437
members of the human race. Both have large vague theories
about liberty, and the glorious possibilities of the individual*
which commend themselves to this student of ancient Greek
politics and Attic taste. If the world is to be regenerated
{the doctrine appears to run), the process will be possible
only if based upon French notions, or guided by the rhapsodies
of an incoherent American republican. This seems difficult
to reconcile with Mr. Swinburne's delicate appreciation of
Greek idealism, and the only explanation appears to be that
he is vainly attempting to find in modern life something that
will correspond to and realise a defunct political system. .
Few things could be more admirable than the steady deter-
mined presentation to this age of that perfect Greek art which
there is such danger of new theorists forgetting, just as hardly
any effort could be more misleading and futile than that
which would upset existing government without an intimate
knowledge of practical politics. It is of no use to argue that
there is an idealism of politics as well as of any other science :
that it is perfectly true at the same time that politics must
always be supremely practical if it is to be at all. Mr.
Swinburne's wisdom, therefore, may fairly be questioned in
so far as he preaches doctrines of statesmanship from the
intangible basis of Greek republicanism, ill-assorted with
French, Italian, and American schemes of government Of
course he is quite at liberty to admire any and all politicians
— even when they happen to have more of the charlatan than
the oracle in their utterance, — but he might be generous as
well as enthusiastic. It might be possible for him to be fair
to the British statesman while making his appeal to the world
regarding the merits of the American rhapsodist. What
idealism there may be in his political poetry is perfectly
legitimate, and will no doubt be estimated as it deserves ; but
the realism that pervades it is another evidence of the fact
that the poet is not a safe practical reformer. It must have
been in dread of such wood-notes wild that Plato proposed
to banish all poets from his perfect State.
The "Songs before Sunrise" owe their name to the con-
sideration that they are preludes to what ought to be if the
triple influence of Mazzini, Hugo, and Whitman were once
rightly acknowledged. They are characterized by boldness
of thought and rare unscrupulousness of assertion. But their
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4&8 5/. James's Magazine.
sentiment is too elaborate, and their refinement too remote
and delicate, to ensure anything like lasting interest in them.
They are a brilliant attempt to glorify man as a power ; and
this is the necessity of the poet's attitude : —
"But God, if a God there be, is the substance of men which is man.
Our lives are as pulses or pores of his manifold body and breath ;
As waves of his sea on the shores where birth is the beacon of death.
We men, the multiform features of man, whatsoever we be,
Recreate him of whom we are creatures, and all we only are he.
Not each man of all men is God, but God is the fruit of the whole,
Indivisible spirit and blood, indiscernible body from sdul."
The secret and origin of existence is " Hertha," which funda-
mental principle after all is essentially Man the Omnipotent :
" I am that which began ;
Out of me the years roll ;
Out of me God and man ;
I am equal and whole ;
God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily ; I am the soul-
* ♦ * * *
For truth only is living,
Truth only is whole,
And the love of his giving
Man's polestar and pole ;
Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and Seed of my soul-
One birth of my bosom ;
One beam of mine eye ;
One topmost blossom
That scales the sky ;
Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I J9
Such reflections ought, unquestionably, to give the liveliest
satisfaction to the " indivisible particle " of any republican or
man — could there be, at least, perfect assurance of the reality
apart from the overlying rhapsody. The poet finds that
"Hertha" is appreciated more or less skilfully, and cor-
respondingly depreciated with less or more intensity in
Europe — notably in France and Italy, — and he appeals to
Walt Whitman in America for effective sympathy. As a
rule, English singers have not made much of Mr. Whitman's
lyrical efforts, and it would perhaps be wise in them to set
about instant self-examination, with a view to probable revisal
of their critical attitude, when they hear him apostrophized
thus: —
" O strong-winged soul with prophetic
Lips hot with the blood-beats of song,
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Our Modern Poets. 439
With tremor of heartstrings magnetic,
With thoughts as thunder's in throng,
With consonant ardours of chords
That pierce men's souls as with swords,
And hale them bearing along ! "
The very peculiar beauty of the last line has been rivalled by
a late school-book editor, who presents one of Hogg's fancies
to his youthful readers in this wise, —
" Musical cherub soar singing away ! "
As, however, melody is meantime a minor matter, it will be
better not to linger over such beauties and to follow this
cosmical theory to its outcome. Mr. Swinburne, and some
others (probably his fellow-republicans), find there is little on
this side the Atlantic but chains and restrictions upon the
kind of liberties they have set their hearts on. The general
sentiment, it would appear, is against them — a powerful,
steady current is flowing, and they are strong swimmers
hardly short of a fearful agony. What then ? Would not the
innocent observer suggest that they should go to America —
become the pilgrim fathers of the nineteenth century — and
realise a pantisocracy under Whitman as presiding divine ?
The disconsolate friends of Irish and other emigrants in this
country should take courage when they learn from Mr. Swin-
burne how well situated their departed friends and relatives
are in the land of the author of " Drum Taps."
" Round your people and over them
Light-like raiment is drawn,
Close as a garment to cover them
Wrought not of mail nor of lawn ;
Here, with hope hardly to wear,
Naked nations and bare
Swim, sink, strike out for the dawn.*
But there is some room for suspicion that our rhapodist is
slightly inconsistent sometimes. His " Marching Song/' e.g.,
opens in this sweeping fashion : —
w We mix from many lands,
We march for very far ;
In hearts and lips and hands
Our staffs and weapons are ;
The light we walk in darkens sun and moon and star,
* * * * #
We have the morning star,
O foolish people, O kings ! ^
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440 St. yameis Magazine.
With us the day-springs are,
Even all the fresh day-springs ;
For us and with us all the multitudes of things."
There is little wonder that they should, with such exceptional
privileges, be able to "march for very far," and, if, the uniniti-
ated feel much surprise in the matter, it is in the consideration
that more has not come ere this out of such extraordinary
marching. Indeed, unless the whole is to be taken as purely
rhetorical flourish, it is hard to see where the apostles of
liberty have much room for complaint. It is surely ungrate-
ful to kick at those very conditions which are helpful towards
ultimate perfection. It may be, indeed, that, in momentary
admiration of Whitman's circumstances, our republican be-
comes petulant, and doth protest too much. It is safe to say,
upon the whole, that it would be difficult to parallel these
" Songs," in their fervent intensity, and their comprehensive
vagueness, anywhere out of the geographical and ethnological
odes of Walt Whitman himself.
" And Peter noted what he said,
Standing behind his master's chair."
Even as the American can reach from pole to pole and grasp
the world in his span, so the Englishman " On the Downs "
gets this response from % the mother " to his earnest cry and
prayer for final utterance on the all-absorbing theme, —
" With all her tongues of life and death,
With all her bloom and blood and breath,
From all years dead and all things done,
In the ear of man the mother saith,
There is no God, O son,
If thou be none."
All this being so, the average Englishman may surely be
excused should he determine to wait yet a while ere joining
such fervent reformers in their march towards the sunrise.
It is quite intelligible ground to take that such theories as
those advocated by Mr. Swinburne, and those he considers
mighty teachers, may be beautiful enough in theory, though
hardly reducible to practice. It seems also a fair inference,
from examination of the " Songs," that it is difficult, if not
quite impossible, to make poetical capital of the best kind out
of current politics. Direct, immediate interest may attach to
a patriotic effusion framed so as to meet a national idea, and
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Our Modern %Pods. 441
hence the success of war odes from Tyrtaios to Burns. Even
" Corn-Law Rhymes" may accomplish more than parliamen-
tary orator)', where there is the necessity that popular feeling
should be stirred to the depths, and their author may have a
certain degree of posthumous fame with a select circle. But
when it, comes to a case of re-arrangement of the Kosmos, it
is a much more serious matter, and practical thinkers refuse
to be guided by the fine rhetoric of the poet. It is a touching
thing to see a prophet tearing a passion to pieces while the
rest of the world is quietly going on its way. There is a
depth of pathos in this man's attitude, too, as well as in that
of his brother, whose simplicity of soul leads him to seat him-
self patiently by the bank of the stream till the current shall
have run itself away.
While, however, such vast intangible theories postulate
verse that can never hold a serious place in literature, it is
only fair to say that where there is a workable theme
Mr. Swinburne produces, even on a political subject, poetry
of the highest order. In the " Songs of Two Nations" there
is genuine fervour and brilliant eloquence, wedded to richest
harmonies. There is of course indication of the potent theory
occasionally, but on the whole the immediate subject is
handled with directness and force. The enthusiasm finds
vent in perfect torrents of warm sentiment and melodious
appeal. The flood-gates of sympathy would seem to have
fairly burst forth with inexhaustible discharge. It were
almost inexplicable to an observer, were it not properly under-
stood, that the Universe is interested in these political revolu-
tions. Hence it is that in " A Song of Italy " there is such an
appeal as this for the honour due to u the chief" that sundered
the bonds pf his country :
" Praise him, O winds that move the molten air,
O light of days that were,
And light of days that shall be ; land and sea,
And heaven and Italy :
Praise him, O storm and summer, shore and wave,
O skies and every grave ;
O weeping hopes, O memories beyond tears,
O many and murmuring years,
O sounds far off in time and visions far,
O sorrow with thy star,
And joy with all thy beacons ; ye that mourn,
And yc whose light is born ;
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442 St- James's Magazine.
O fallen faces, and O souls arisen,
Praise him from tomb and prison,
Praise him from heaven and sunlight ; and ye floods,
And windy waves of woods ;
Ye valleys and wild vineyards, ye lit lakes
And happier hillside brakes,
Untrampled by the accursed feet that trod
Fields golden from their God,
Fields of their God forsaken, whereof none
Sees his face in the sun,
Hears his voice from the floweriest wildernesses ;
And, barren of his tresses,
Ye bays unplucked and laurels unentwined,
That no men break or bind,
And myrtles long forgetful of the sword,
And olives unadored,
Wisdom and love, white hands that save and slay,
Praise him."
The sentence runs on similarly for pages together, and the
reader comes panting at a long distance behind the poet.
The torrent of melodious words is almost overwhelming with
its tumultuous excess. One thinks in a confused way of the
inspired singer of Israel, and wonders why Mr. Swinburne's
eloquence was not shorn of two-thirds of its foliage. Might
it not have been possible to take for granted very much of
what the poet thinks it necessary to tell, and yet to have
acknowledged the beauty of the rhythm and the delicacy of
the cadences ? No doubt it would ; but then it would have
been possible to forget there are
" For us and with us all the multitudes of things."
Even away from politics altogether we shall be met by the
same favourite doctrine of the author's. But elsewhere he is
more generally interesting, because as a rule he is more in-
telligible, if still somewhat at variance with certain established
doctrines. We speedily meet him on the delicate debatable
ground as to whether in poetry all things are expedient as
well as possible. He is admirable, or has been already said,
in his steady efforts towards the introduction into modern
poetry of that ancient Greek spirit which, in its ethereal
delicacy of refinement, must remain beautiful for ever. It is
in communion with this rare intuition of a bygone age that
the very highest idealism is possible. It is in this sphere that
man's unaided wisdom has made the noblest efforts to reach
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Our Modern Poets. 443
the divine. The Greeks had an appreciation of sensuous beauty-
such as has never been equalled since, and besides they could
admire with genuine feeling whatsoever in character is lovely
and of good report. No man has better opportunities for
understanding what is true heroism than he whose privilege
it is to look from the standpoint of Pericles or jEschylus.
It is here that he finds the original and the deepest reading
of the proposition that the brave man is at home wherever
there are noble deeds to be done, and that the whole earth
is his burial-place. At the same time, modern conditions
rest on more than Greek sense of the beautiful and Greek
desire after divine truth. A higher teaching still has to be
recognized, and, wherever the spirit of "old times" comes
into conflict with this new element, something unquestionably-
must be done to reconcile or separate. If it is clearly under-
stood that a poetical artist of the nineteenth century A.D. is
faithfully working to reproduce the culture of the fourth or
fifth century B.C., and to allow that to stand or fall by its own
merits, then he occupies perfectly rational ground, and cannot
fail to be rewarded according to his gifts. But it is a very
different matter should he choose to suppose that the cultus
of this age is to be moulded entirely upon that of the classic
Hellenism. This is where Mr. Swinburne and his critics fail
to agree. Greek heathenism, if it is necessary to call it so, is
in and for itself very much to be admired, and very much to
be imitated, but it is inadequate as the be-all and end-all of
existence. It is in the use he makes of sensuous beauty for its
own sake — in the undue application of the ancient theory to
entirely altered conditions — that Mr. Swinburne exposes him-
self so readily to hostile attacks. Take even those members of
his " Poems and Ballads " which he felt himself called on to
defend so warmly in his famous " Notes," and it will hardly
be denied, on an impartial perusal, that they are not always
of the most ennobling character. Burning Sappho may have
loved and sung as no one else ever did before or since, but
that does not necessarily prove her capable of edifying the
reader of English poetry. Besides, were a mere translation
presented, the man whose education included no Greek might
pity or laugh at the intensity of her passion according to his
temperament. When the case, however, is that Mr. Swinburne
bases an important poem on the spirit of Sappho's work, he
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444 &• y&ntes's Magazine.
need hardly get angry when a scholar tells him " That is not
Sappho," and he should feel no surprise should the unskilled
reader mistake his motive. An educated Englishman, who
never heard of Sappho, can read this, for instance, and no
highflown defence of culture for its own sake will hinder
him from coming to his own conclusions on the subject : —
* Yea, all sweet words of thine, and all thy ways,
And all the fruit of nights and flower of days,
And stinging lips wherein the hot sweet brine
That Love was borne of burns and foams like wine,
And eyes insatiable of amorous hours,
Fervent as fire and delicate as flowers,
Coloured like night at heart, but cloven through
, • Like night with flame, dyed round like night with blue,
Clothed with deep eyelids under and above
Yea, all thy beauty sickens me with love ;
Thy girdle empty of thee, and now not fair,
(' And ruinous lilies in thy languid hair."
Mr. Swinburne complains that he is misunderstood and mis-
represented in his honest efforts to reproduce the spirit of the
ancient Greek. But does he remember how careful Spenser
was to point out that his chief meaning was not to be found
on the surface, and how " Gulliver's Travels " is popularly-
reckoned an excellent nursery tale ? Still, granted that the
"Laus Veneris " and "Anaemia/* "Dolores " and the grace-
ful " Faustine " may be defensible as he puts it, what is to be
said for the indwelling sensuousness of " Chastelard " and
" Bothwell " ? The shade of igneous Sappho can hardly be
held responsible for these ! The meditation of Chastelard in
Queen Mary's bedroom has not been excelled, even by Swift
himself, who is not generally held up as a model for the
aspiring poetic artist : —
" Here is the very place :
Here has her body bowed the pillows in,
And here her head thrust under made the sheet
Smell soft of her mixed hair and spice," etc.
Ugh ! what old times can we say are breathing here ? Surely
after that it were fair to expect the deluge ! One thing of
many more that does come after it is Chastelard's bold declara-
tion, at another interview, that to gaze on the Queen as he is
privileged to do were joy enough " for God's eyes up in heaven/'
while Mary in consequence is induced to observe,
" Clasp me quite round till your lips cleave on mine.*
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Our Modern Poets. 445
One might be inclined to be lenient, and even to condone
these things as the outcome of youthful indiscretion, but
then the same spirit, sometimes doubly distilled, pervades
" Bothwell." Hear Queen Mary speaks to the Earl, as Mr-
Swinburne supposes she did, and then feel no more surprise
at the idea of " burning Sappho " : —
" I may not always lie thus, may not kneel,
Cling round your hands and feet, or with shut eyes
Wait till your lips be fast upon my face, --; *
And laugh with very love intolerable /^ •» **
As I laugh now. . . . /A*'' ^*
Sweet, do not speak, / «* ^ • \'
Nor do not kiss me ; let mine eyes but rest
In the love's light of yours, and for a space
1'/
My heart lie still, late drunken with love's wine, \V * - * /i
And feel the fierce fumes lessen and go out, \ 44* "^ " *r
And leave it healed." Vf "• •
As has been said above, " Bothwcll " is a poem of extra*
ordinary length ; it would be a drama of extraordinary power
and interest, were it put through the fire of the refiner. The
beauty of its lyrics, and the sturdy vigour of many of the
scenes and situations, go far to atone for the presence of the
voluptuous element of which the above quotation is a
specimen. It is pleasant to be able by this work to leave
the sensuous feature in Mr. Swinburne's method, which it was
impossible to ignore. " Bothwell " is a work which displays
to the full the authors power of conception and his fine sense
of dramatic incident. It would be possible to combat his
views of the historical characters, and probably it would not
be difficult to show that his notions of Mary and Bothwell
are both radically false ; but thesejthings apart, it is impossible
to deny the great dramatic strength of the work. The draw-
ing of John Knox himself is a masterpiece. His address to
the citizens in the High Street is perhaps rather long, but it
is fairly warranted by the circumstances, and it forms one of
the finest monologues in modern literature : —
" What word is this that ye require of man ?
Ye that would hear me, what speech heard of mine
Should lift your hearts up if they sit not high,
If they lack life should quicken ? for this day
Ye know not less than I know that the Lord
Hath given his enemy to you for a prey,
His judgment for a fire ; what need have ye,
Or he what need of other tongues, to^peak,
VOL. I. Digitized wi^j(
446 5/. Jameses Magazine.
Than this which burns all ears that here on earth
The blast of this day's justice blown in heaven —
As where is he that hears not ? In your hand
Lies now the doom of God to deal, and she
Before your face to abide it, in whose mouth
His name was as a hissing ; and had I
The tongues in mine of angels, and their might,
What other word or mightier should I seek
Than this to move you ? or should ye wax cold,
What fuel should I find out to kindle you ?
If God ye hear not, how shall ye hear me ? "
In the stirring address of the Reformer there is noticeable
one of the leading elements of Mr. Swinburne's strength. He
succeeds to a remarkable degree in reproducing the very
manner of the ancient interpreter of the Hebrew prophecies.
Similarly, his Greek culture is at its best in " Atalanta in Caly*
don " and " Erechtheus." One feels in reading these that the
ancient spirit is not dead. " Atalanta " is a very fine study
throughout — a worthy variation on one of the best of the myths.
It is a study of the depth of the mother's love — of the single-
ness and sincerity of the mother's ambition — as illustrated in
the character of Althaea. There is not in English such a
perfect example of what the Greek drama at its best was to
the people of Athens. At every turn, one is reminded of
iEschylus or Sophocles or Euripides. The manner is caught
with quite marvellous accuracy. Althaea's homily addressed
to Meleager will illustrate this as well as any other passage-
Take the introductory lines :
" Child, if a man serve law through all his life,
And with his whole heart worship, him all gods
Praise ; but who loves it only with his lips,
And not in heart and deed desiring it,
Hides a perverse will with obsequious words, —
Him heaven infatuates, and his twin-born fate
Tracks, and gains on him, scenting sins far off,
And the swift hounds of violent death devour.
Be man at one with equal-minded gods,
So shall he prosper ; not through laws torn up,
Violated rule, and a new phase of things."
In the lyrics, too, there is the becoming sparkle and delicacy
of cadence; as, for instance, in the chorus which begins
thus, —
" Before the beginning of years,
There came to the making of man
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Our Modern Poets. 447
Time, with a gift of tears ;
Grief, with a glass that ran ;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven ;
Summer, with flowers that fell ;
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And madness risen from hell ;
Strength without hands to smite ;
Love that endures for a breath ;
Night, the shadow of light,
And life, the shadow of death."
"Erectheus" is a bolder study, as the subject denotes,
exhibiting greater breadth of treatment and a more elaborate
art. There is more of iEschylus in this work, and more of
Euripides in the other. The choric parts of this work show
to the full that mastery over words and melodies for which
Mr. Swinburne is so remarkable. There are the apparent
obscurity, the remoteness of indwelling cause and effect, and
the essential strength, that so markedly characterize the
choruses of the u Agamemnon " : —
" He hath uttered too surely his wrath not obscurely,
Nor wrapt as in mists of his breath,
The master that lightens not hearts he enlightens, but
Gives them foreknowledge of death.
As a bolt from the cloud hath he sent it aloud, and
Proclaimed it afar,
From the darkness and height of the horror of night
Hath he shown us a star,"
Upon the whole, these two are the most satisfactory poems
Mr. Swinburne has written. Did space permit, something
further might be said of several of the smaller poems, from
"Ave atque Vale " to the fresh and buoyant " Sailing of the
Swallow;" but it may suffice to say that the poet has worked
well up to the ideal he proposed for himself by Landor's last
resting-place :
" I came as one whose thoughts half linger,
Half run before ;
The youngest to the oldest singer
That England bore."
This was index to the sustaining [courage^ that has never
flagged.
''^"jS^fStl
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Sister Agatha.
'cJEIjree jfracmenw of an autobfoffrapltf.
By ROGER QUIDDAM.
FRAGMENT THE FIRST.
>ND is this to be the end of all our love, Mary?"
"Yes, John," I replied firmly, "this is to be
the end."
"Will nothing that I can say induce you to
alter your decision ? "
" Nothing."
" You are absolutely pitiless, then ? "
" I have told you, till I am weary of explaining, that it
must be so. It is not my doing "
" Ah, I know that well."
"—It is the will of God."
"The will of God ! " he cried angrily ; "oh, do not say so !
say, rather, the will of a selfish, heartless girl, worked upon
by a set of fanatical priests."
" John," I replied, drawing myself up to my full height, and
looking from him towards the window, "there must be an
end of this conversation. I cannot remain here to hear the
servants of the Most High reviled."
He looked at me with a kind of wondering curiosity, and
then pointing to some volumes of "Lives of the Saints" which
stood upon the table, he said, —
" You have been reading these unwholesome books till your
whole nature has been changed "
" I hope so," I replied calmly.
" — Till your whole nature has been changed from that of
a loving, warm-hearted girl, to the harsh, bigoted nature of
your precious heroes and heroines."
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Sister Agatha. 449
" This is too much," I exclaimed sternly. " I will not listen
to more. I must leave the room."
I made a movement towards the door, but he stepped
forward and barred my way.
"Forgive me, Mary," he said in a changed tone, so low and
appealing that it went straight to my heart. " Forgive me,
darling. I did not mean to offend you. But, oh, consider
how wretched I am made by your fatal determination. After
all our love, — after all those happy months, — O God, this is
too much!"
The despairing cadence in which he uttered these words, as
he turned his face away from me, caused my eyes to fill with
tears. For a moment I seemed to be shaken by a strong
wind. An almost irresistible impulse came upon me to rush
forward and seize him round the neck, and comfort him with
an assurance of my love. But I overcame the temptation, and
stood firm. There was a painful silence of some minutes
duration ; then he turned to me again, — but so changed — so
pale and haggard.
"Mary!" he cried in a passionate tone which seemed to
entreat and command at once ; and he held out his hands as
if he wished me to fly into his arms. My blood raged and
throbbed within me as I looked into his pale face, usually so '
handsome and ruddy, and into his mournful eyes which I was
accustomed to see so sparkling and gay : but I stood firm.
Seeing that I remained immovable, he dropped his hands,
and turned to the table where lay his hat and cane.
" Your decision is irrevocable, Mary ? "
" Irrevocable," I replied.
" Then,— goodbye."
He held out his hand as he spoke, and I laid mine in the
strong brown palm. He closed his fingers upon it, and
brought his other yhand down upon it, as if to hold it more
securely.
" Goodbye, Mary."
" Goodbye, John, and "
"Yes?"
" — May God comfort you, and bring you to a knowledge
of the truth as He has brought me."
" Goodbye. One kiss, dear, before we part for ever."
I hesitated an instant, but seeing a look of exquisite
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450 Si. Jameis Magazine.
pleading in his eyes, I turned my face up towards his own.
He bent over me and held me for a moment in his arms,
then suddenly relinquishing me he rushed from the room
without another word.
Oh, the great wind which shook me then ! For one wild
moment I had the idea of flying after him to resign myself to
his love for evermore ; but a glance at the ivory figure which
hung over my writing-desk calmed the tempest, and made me
strong.
The noise of the hall-door closing with a crash apprised
my aunt of John's departure, and I heard her light feet
tripping down the staircase from her room above. In a few
seconds the door opened, and she appeared.
" Well, my dear ? " she said, as she approached me with a
kind of eager timidity which I well understood.
" Well, aunt, — he is gone."
" For good ? Not for good, my child ? "
" For good, aunt."
She lifted her hands with an expression of grief and amaze-
ment, and sank into a chair.
" Oh, Mary, — and he loved you so ! Hell break his heart-
You cruel, cruel girl ! "
" Hush, aunt : God will be good to him."
"Oh, the poor young fellow! As beautiful as a cherry
and as upright as a dart. After all his love. You did not
know how much he loved you. And you have driven him
away ! " ,
Poor Aunt Betsy wrung her hands and burst into tears, as
she rocked herself to and fro upon her chair in the extremity
of her grief.
" Hush, dear aunt," I said, wiping the tears from my own
eyes : " hush ; do not afflict yourself; it is the will of God."
"Never!" she cried energetically, as she lifted her grey
head and looked me in the face. " My dear, I never will
believe that God wishes a young and beautiful creature to
shut herself up in a tomb, and break her poor young lovers
heart. I never can, I never will believe it — never, never ! "
" That, dear aunt, is because God has not yet blessed you
with the gift of faith," I said with mild dignity.
" Maybe so, my dear. Maybe God has blessed you with a
deafer insight into those things than He has bestowed upon
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Sister Agatha. 451
me ; but in the light of my present knowledge, I say it is a
cruel, cruel thing, and a burning shame on the part of those
who are encouraging you."
" Dear aunt," I said, holding up my hand entreatingly, " do
not speak so : you pain me."
u I cannot help it, Mary. See what pain you have inflicted
upon that poor young fellow who worshipped the very ground
you trod ; and all for what ? "
" To do the will of God, aunt."
"Are you sure of that, my dear? Are you sure it is not
somebody else's will you are doing ? "
I was about to reply, when a peculiar double knock on the
hall door made me start and flush. My aunt rose swiftly from
her chair, and made towards the door.
" Stay, aunt," I said coaxingly. " Do not run away. Let
me introduce you to Father Pascal."
" My dear — not for a thousand pounds ! "
" But he is such a heavenly man, aunt, and will make every-
thing so clear to you if you will only listen to him."
" My dear," said my aunt, as she turned at the door, and
curtseyed with great majesty, "when I require counsel and
assistance, I shall not go to Father Pascal for either."
" You might do worse, aunt," I replied, rather irritably.
" I might "do better, and so might you, child," she retorted
and left the room.
I had hardly time to regain my composure, which had been
somewhat ruffled by this passage with my aunt, when dear
Father Pascal entered. At sight of his heavenly-pale visage,
all my troubles vanished, and I sank at his feet to receive his
blessing with a soul calm and serene.
"Benedicat te, Omnipotens Deus," he murmured, as his
attenuated hand was raised over my head in the act of
blessing; and it seemed to me as if the immediate fruit
of his benison was an accession of fortitude to my feeble
soul.
" Well, my child," he said, as he took the chair I reverently
proffered him, " has God yet given you grace to respond to
His holy call?"
"Yes, Father," I answered meekly. "It is all settled. I
have to-day broken the one chain which bound me to the
world."
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452 Si. Jainefs Magazine.
" You allude to your lover ? "
" Yes, Father," I replied, as I blushed.
" And it is all arranged, and you are free to embrace the
holy state to which you feel yourself called ? "
" Quite free, Father."
" Fortunate child, to have been blessed with so distinguished
a call. Not only have you been led out of the darkness of
heresy, but you have been called to tread the path of holy
perfection. Do you not realise the greatness of this mercy ? "
" I do indeed, Father," I answered, in a tone of heartfelt
fervour.
" Mother Margaret of the Holy Visitation will love you as
a daughter, and the whole community will welcome you as a
sister. God will bless and strengthen your vocation, because
you have responded to His call, and have had the courage to
turn from an earthly lover to the embraces of. a heavenly
spouse. Dear child."
This speech filled me with an internal gratification which no
words can express. My heart swelled with a determination
to go forward and continue to deserve the approbation of so
holy a man.
"Yours, my daughter," he continued, after a short pause*
during which he had closed his eyes as if in prayer, — " yours
was a most interesting conversion. So sudden, so unexpected,
that, in a more believing age, it would have been hailed as a
miracle of divine grace."
I felt my soul glow with rapture at these words, and was on
the point of prostrating myself before him to kiss the hem of
his garment, when he resumed, —
" You had never entered a Catholic church before the after-
noon of your conversion, I believe ? "
" Never before, Father. Indeed, I was quite loath to enter, for
I had heard so many tales of the doings of ' papists/ as the
poor heretics call us, that I was half afraid and half in horror
of them ; but John laughed at my hesitation, and spoke of the
beautiful tone of the organ, and the curious ' mummeries/ as
in his blindness he termed the ceremonies of our holy Church*
so that I somewhat reluctantly consented to accompany him.
I looked around me with awe and astonishment when I entered
It was the Benediction service. The choir had just commenced
the ' O Salutaris/ and the incense was rising in clouds about
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Sister Agatha. 45$
the throne of the Blessed Sacrament. My admiration and awe
rapidly increased, and when the solemn moment of benediction..
came, and the priest with the shining monstrance in his hand
turned towards the people, my breath was taken away by the
sudden hush which fell upon the church. I gazed frightened for
an instant at the glory glittering amid the wreaths of incense,,
and then fell upon my knees. John was shocked, and endea-
voured to lead me from the church ; but I refused to move
and burying my face in my hands, sobbed quite loudly. From
that moment my conversion was secure. John and my aunt
were terribly moved by my change of religion, but God, through
your counsels, dear Father, has given me grace to respond to
His call."
" Thus you see, my child," said Father Pascal, pressing his
hands devoutly together, iC God can turn the most unlikely
instruments .to His purpose. If it had been a person of known
friendly dispositions to the Catholic Church who had asked
you to enter St Philip's on that happy afternoon, it is most
probable that a feeling of distrust would have prevented you
from obeying the call of grace ; but seeing that the invitation
came from one whom you trusted, and who was also hostile
to the Church of God, you entered within reach of the staff of
the good Shepherd, and were gathered safely into the one
true fold."
" True, Father," I murmured, clasping my hands in imitation
of my director's attitude,—" most true. And now there is
nothing to prevent me devoting my life henceforward to the
service of God."
" The sooner the better, my daughter. It is our bounden
duty at all times to flee from temptations which may at any
moment prove too strong for us. I have already spoken to-
Mother Margaret Mary about you, and she is quite ready to
receive you as a postulant. When do you think of presenting
yourself?"
" When you think proper, Father."
?This is Saturday; on Wednesday next commences the
Novena for the feast of Corpus Christi. Corpus Christi as
you know, is one of the greatest feasts of the sister, of EternaL
Adoration. Why not present yourself in time to secure the
spiritual blessings of the Novena ? "
•'With pleasure, Father," I answered eagerly. "Write em
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454 St. jamefs Magazine.
a note for Mother Margaret Mary, and I will go to see her
to-morrow after mass."
Father Pascal seated himself at my desk and rapidly penned
a few lines ; he then took his leave in order to visit dear Lady
Bimble, who, he assured me, was already wavering in her hold
upon heresy, and of whom he had the most sanguine hopes.
He had no sooner gone than my aunt, who had evidently
been watching for his departure, re-entered the room,
" Thank God he is gone, my dear," she cried, throwing her-
self into a chair and untying her capstrings. " I never breathe
freely while that man is in the house."
" Aunt, I'm ashamed of you ! " I retorted indignantly ; w a
holy man like that. I wish I could persuade you to speak to
him and get rid V)f those rabsurd notions you have imbibed
against the true faith and its ministers."
My aunt made no reply in words, but she gave a sarcastic
sniff which at any other time would have provoked me ex-
ceedingly; but remembering that we were soon to part —
perhaps for ever in this world — I controlled my feelings, and
approaching her I said softly, —
" Dear aunt, we musn't quarrel. I am soon going to leave
you."
She started, and clutching my wrist, looked wildly in my
face.
" Going to leave me, Mary ? For that dreadful convent ? "
" Yes, aunt," I replied, smiling at her consternation. But
the poor thing fell back in her chair, and covering her face
with her little black silk apron began to sob and moan most
piteously.
" Oh that I should have lived to see this day ! Oh that I
should have lived to see this day ! " she cried in lamentable
tones. " It nearly broke my heart when my own poor sister's
only child turned from the true religion to be a benighted
Papist and bow down to stocks and stones, but now to go and
bury her days in a dreadful prison among a set of wretched
half-crazed creatures in black "
"Aunt Betsy!" I cried, "do not be absurd. It Is not a
prison ; they are not half-crazed ; they do not wear black, but
a beautiful purple robe. I am surprised at you, — I am indeed,
and quite angry/'
" No, no, my dear, don't be angry," she pleaded, taking the
Digitized by VjOO VlC
Sister Agatha. 455
apron from her face and drawing my head down that she
might kiss me. " Oh, my poor fatherless and motherless child
— my poor Mary," she sobbed as she kissed my brow and
smoothed my hair. " They'll cut off your bonny hair, my
dear, and starve you, and whip you, and lock you up in their
dreadful dungeons if you offend them. I've read all about it,
my child — IVe read all about it."
"You have read lying books, aunt, written for the purpose
of defaming the Catholic Church."
" It may have been lies, child — I won't say ; but it was in
your own books I read it."
" In my books, aunt ? " I demanded incredulously.
" Yes, my dear ; in that very book lying there." She pointed
as she spoke to the volume containing the life of St. John of
the Cross, which lay on the table in the centre of the room.
" They were wicked people who did that, aunt."
"They were monks and nuns, my dear, that's all that I
know about it ; and they whipped him, and chained him, and
starved him ; and that's what they'll do to you, if you displease
them."
" Nonsense, aunt. You shall come and see the convent and
speak to the nuns ; you will be charmed by them."
"No, child; one of us is enough to be charmed. They
shall not charm me, I'll take care. And oh that poor boy,"
she cried, her thoughts suddenly taking another direction,
"what will become of him? — what will he do when he hears
of it?"
" He knows it already, aunt, and will soon recover the shock."
" You'll never be happy, Mary, for having broken his life for
him."
" That is in the hands of God, aunt. Neither you nor I can
speak with certainty of that. It is sufficient for me to know
that I am doing the will of God."
"I will never believe that it is God's will, Mary."
"I will pray to God to enlighten your understanding,
aunt"
" Do so, child ; and if an old woman's prayer be heard, God
will open your eyes also, and cause you to see how cruel and
wicked a thing it is to take your youth and beauty out of the
pleasant wholesome world, which it was sent to adorn, into a
gloomy, mouldering dungeon of a convent."
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456 St. James's Magazine.
" Aunt," said I austerely, " we will talk no more on the sub-
ject, if you please;" and without attending to her exclamations
I sailed majestically from the room.
FRAGMENT THE SECOND.
" I OBSERVE with grief, Sister Agatha, that the fault of pride
is very conspicuous in your demeanour, and has been ever
since your admission to the convent"
" Pride, Reverend Mother?" I asked, with considerable sur-
prise in my tone.
" Yes. The imperfection is painfully evident when you are
accused of trifling faults by your sisters, or by the mistress of
novices."
"Certainly, Reverend Mother, I have been both surprised
and hurt ; and no doubt I have shown my feelings, when I
have been suddenly accused of faults of which I was entirely*
innocent."
" And it particularly manifests itself, at this moment, in
your anxiety to excuse yourself, and in the glibness and
assurance of your excuses."
"Reverend Mother!" I exclaimed, shocked by the unusual
severity of her tone.
" It is the duty of every good religious to kill before all:
things the vice of self-love in her heart; and for this pur-
pose, when she meets with an opportunity of self-denial and
self-humiliation, she will embrace it with enthusiasm as sent
by God for the sanctification of her soul. I must say I do
not observe this eagerness in you — at present. I hope to see
you amend."
With these cutting words Mother Margaret Mary gave me
to understand that the interview was at an end, so I pros-
trated myself before her, according to custom, and retired to
my cell.
Oh, I was very unhappy. I felt now — alas, too late ! — that
I had made a terrible mistake in entering the convent I was
not fitted for the close, inactive life. I had entered the cloister
with a heart glowing with religious fervour; but it was alL
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Sister Agatha. 457
cold and dead — beaten down by daily reprimands, penances,
humiliations, and disappointments. Instead of the enthusiasm
which I had expected to find for my own to feed upon — the
glory and pomp of religion which I coveted — the example of
heroism which I longed to emulate in the service of God and
the Church — I found a cold, business-like self-abnegation, a
dreary monotony, a silent gloom which oppressed me to the
earth. Instead of meeting with companions who would have
fanned my enthusiasm, and ministered to my zeal, I found a
number of pale, meek-eyed mortals, moving like shadows
about the corridors, each so engrossed in the selfish care of
her own salvation as not to have a word or even a look for a
struggling sister. Instead of the gorgeously clad priests, the
chanting choir, the lights and brilliancy and beauty I had
anticipated, there was only the convent chaplain with his dull
nasal voice, the gloomy little chapel with its cluster of dim
yellow lights burning day and night upon its diminutive altar,
and the flat, faded voices of my sisters in religion.
Instead of action, it was contemplation and silent adoration ;
instead of enthusiasm, it was self-repression ; and I was chilled
to the heart.
For the first few weeks the novelty of the convent life had
pleased me. My heated fancy was excited by the solemnity
of our silent service of perpetual adoration; and I endea-
voured to excel my sisters in the fervour of my genuflexions,
in the variety of postures expressive of love and adoration
which I assumed, and in the depth of my sighs of devotion.
But alas, Mother Margaret Mary snubbed me so continuously,
and the director of the convent spoke to me so severely on
the danger and sinfulness of vain-glory, that I felt myself
suddenly depressed, and from a state of intense enjoyment
fell into a condition of weariness and disgust There was no
longer any outlet for my enthusiastic feelings. I did not dare
to make even a gesture in the choir which could be construed
into anything but the most formal discharge of my religious
duties, for fear of bringing upon me the Reverend Mother's
severe rebuke. Thus it was that everything being learned
that was to be learned, and everything seen that could be
seen, I grew weary and sick at heart. I longed for the
glorious ritual of Saint Philips', as a relief to the mean little
services of our chapel ; and now, too, as I saw the ceremonies
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458 Si. James's Magazine.
of the Church from a closer standpoint, they seemed without
significance or beauty. I looked at my sisters, who had been
years in the convent, and their pale, contented faces irritated
me to death. How could they endure it ? I wondered. Why
did not they make some change ? There was nothing to look
forward to ; it was awful.
" Are you sure, my dear, that you are doing the will of
God?"
These words of my dear aunt's rang in my ears like the
dismal burden of some melancholy song — day after day, hour
after hour. I knew now whose will had drawn me into this
uncongenial life. No prompting from on high had led me to
trample my natural affections under foot ; no divine guidance
had led me hither. It was the whim of a selfish, vain-glorious
heart, and bitterly have I suffered for my folly.
In my utter ignorance of the life I was about to embrace, I
had conceived dim visions of playing the saint and the heroine
like another Saint Theresa or Marie Alacoque. I imagined
myself treading the aisles of the convent chapel in my flowing
robes, watched with admiration by the faithful, displaying in
my pale cheeks and uplifted eyes the devotion which was
glowing in my breast But, the flowing robes, and the pale
cheek, and the uplifted eye, were not for the public gaze ;
and my companions were too deeply absorbed in their own
visions to give any heed to me. I wanted space and magnifi-
cence to perform in, and here all was narrow, mean, and
contemptible.
I became an example indeed, but not of virtue. I was
daily held up to public reprobation for faults so trifling that I
was amazed at their being noticed ; but I was soon reminded
that I had engaged to tread the road of perfection, and I
must, therefore, expect to have the lightest spot noticed and
reprobated. So far from being a shining light, as I had
fondly hoped to be, I was snubbed, and degraded in the eyes
of my sisters by humiliating penances &nd ridiculous obser-
vances.
I returned to my cell after the interview with Mother
Margaret Mary, and casting myself by the side of my mean
little bed, I buried my face in my hands and burst into
bitter tears. Oh, how my folly was punished ! What had I
trampled under foot to gratify my insane pride — my diseased
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Sister Agatha. 459
vanity ! I had excused my cruelty to others who loved me
dearly, by the plea that I was carrying out the divine will,
but that plea had long broken and crumbled in my miserable
hands.
Unable to bear the bitterness of my reflections, I rose to
my feet and walked about my- cell. I spurned with scornful
irritation the little emblems of superstition which a few weeks
ago it had been my delight to cherish, and with clasped hands
and streaming eyes walked and walked, occasionally stopping
to press my burning forehead against the cold walls.
Suddenly an idea struck me, and I looked with intense
desire at my barred window, over the top of whose wooden
blind the evening sun was streaming a slender golden ray
What though I am forbidden by my rule to even so much
as peep into the neighbouring gardens ? — what do I care for
rules ? Have I not been playing the hypocrite for weeks
past? Would not all those pale-faced saints below shrink
from me in horror if they knew that I had committed
sacrilege ; that I had concealed matter in confession ; that
I had eaten and drunken eternal perdition to myself? Oh
John ! dear John ! how could I tell that stern old man that I
had been thinking of you, grieving for you, loving you, when
I knelt in seeming adoration before the Holy of Holies ?
I half thought, half murmured these words, while tears of
exquisite pity for my own forlorn condition, and of tender
love for my lost lover, rolled down my cheeks and fell upon
my habit.
Recovering my composure a little, I took my chair, and
placing it by the side of the window, clambered up and looked
over the top of the wooden screen outside. It was a beautiful
summer evening, the sky was tinged with a tender crimson
glow, and the happy little birds were singing in the gardens
•beneath me. Our own garden was empty, but in the next
one to the right I could hear the sound of voices in con-
versation, and looking thither I saw two forms emerge from
the shadow of the trees and walk down the centre path of
the garden — a young man and a young woman ; he with
his arm laid lightly round her waist, she looking up into his
face, and smiling fondly as he talked. Behind them walked
a grey-headed old lady, who was leading a little child by the
hand. I understood it all at a glance. I thought of John
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460 Si. James's Magazine.
and myself and Aunt Betsy as we walked in the garden of
my own home, and with a cry of grief for all I had aban-
doned, I sprang from the window and threw myself in a heap
upon the floor.
u Oh, I must leave this place before it is too late. I must
go to-night I will call John back and make him happy.
Oh, thank God, they have not cut my hair off yet ! I must
go to-night — now ! "
I rose swiftly to my feet, and was proceeding to the door
when it was opened from the outside, and a lay-sister in*
formed me that there was a visitor for me in the parlour.
" Who can it be ? " I demanded in astonishment.
" Father Pascal, sister/' was the reply.
" Thank God ! " was my fervent ejaculation, and I tore down
the stairs in such a frantic way as nearly made the poor re-
ligious shriek with fright.
As I opened the parlour door Father, Pascal came forward
to greet me, but catching sight of my excited demeanour and
tear-swollen countenance, he started back, and his naturally
pale face became very ghastly.
" Oh, Father Pascal ! " I cried, rushing forward and throwing
myself at his feet, u I must leave this house. I must go at
once — at once ! " I caught his hand as I spoke, but he drew
it away sharply, as if my touch had burned him.
"Rise, my child, and seat yourself," he replied, in an
agitated voice, and he pointed to a chair as he spoke.
But I must go, Father — I must indeed ! Pray do not
prevent me!" I cried passionately, as a thousand remem-
brances and suspicions engendered by the reading of my old
Protestant, days rose before me.
" Prevent you, child ? surely not," he replied, in a sorrowful
voice. " But let me call the Reverend Mother." He stepped
to the door, and a few moments after returned with Mother
Margaret Mary.
I rose to my feet as they entered, and looked at them both
scrutinisingly, fearful of I knew not what. All my con-
fidence in them was gone, and my aunt herself could not
have believed worse of them than I did at that moment*
Mother Margaret Mary looked a little frightened, and was
evidently disconcerted.
"I wish to go from here, Madam, immediately ; I trust
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Sister Agatha. % 461
there will be nothing to prevent me?" I said, in a half
appealing, half menacing tone.
They both looked at each other, and then the Reverend
Mother said to Father Pascal, —
" I think I had better send for Mrs. Ford."
Father Pascal nodded, and the nun left the room without
bestowing a word on me. This behaviour appeared to me
so suspicious that I demanded of Father Pascal what it
meant.
" Have patience, my child," he answered soothingly. " The
Reverend Mother has sent for a lay friend of the convent
to advise her. I hardly know what to say in this extremity.
Pray compose yourself till Mrs. Ford's arrival. Surely you
cannot be afraid of anything ? "
I cast down my eyes at the tone of reproach apparent in
this question, and made no answer. Begging me to excuse
him, the priest left the room, and I sat down again in a state
of pitiable agitation, to await the return of the messenger.
It is possible that I had but a very short time to wait, but it
seemed an age to me before I heard the noise of carriage
wheels stopping before the convent gate, and soon afterwards
the opening of the hall door and the sounds of whispered
conversation in the hall. My suspicions were increased by
this mysterious whispering, and when the door opened and a
tall lady in black entered, I confronted her with a stern and
resolute look. She approached me calmly, and unheeding my
repellant stare, took me gently by the arm and led me to a
seat, — Father Pascal and the Reverend Mother looking on
timidly.
'• What is the matter, my dear child ? " she asked soothingly.
" Nothing, Madam ; I wish to leave the convent."
" All in good time, my child ; why so suddenly ? Why not
wait till to-morrow ? "
" Because I wish to go to-night. I insist upon going to-
night,— this minute — I insist upon it ! " I cried, stamping my
foot upon the floor.
" Hush ! " replied Mrs. Ford rebukingly, and she put her
cool, soft hand upon my burning forehead. u You shall go,
my dear, if you insist upon it. Are your friends living in
London?"
" My aunt lives at Kensington ; I wish to go to her."
VOL. I. 32
462 St Jameses Magazine.
"But why this sudden resolution? Do you feel ill, or
alarmed, or what is it that causes this change in you ? "
" I cannot tell, Madam ; but I must go — oh, I must go ! "
" You had better allow her to go," said Mrs. Ford, turning
to the other two. " It will make her very much worse to
keep her, even for the night, against her will."
"Will you take charge of the poor thing?" asked the
Reverend Mother anxiously.
" With pleasure, Reverend Mother," was the cheerful reply.
Although this short conversation took place in a whisper
my quick ear caught every word, and I sprang to my feet,
with alacrity when Mrs. Ford turned to me and said, —
* Come then, my child ; my carriage is at the door, we will
go to your aunt at once."
# # * *
FRAGMENT THE THIRD.
I WAS getting weary 'of the scene. The lights and glitter and
animation annoyed me, and I replied to my companion's
courtesies in a cold and Jistless manner. I was about to signal
to my aunt, who was at some little distance conversing with
our hostess, that I wished to withdraw, when my attention
was arrested by a low strain of music which issued from the
adjoining apartment. Some person was singing, and though
I could not distinguish the words, the strain was so exquisitely
sweet, and the rich harmonies of the accompaniment blended
so gratefully with the singer's voice, that I was greatly moved.
My melancholy was increased by the mfusic, but at the same
time it was softened to a tenderer, more pathetic key.
Visions of former scenes and of a departed happiness rose in
mournful beauty before my imagination ; and my thoughts,
borne on by the music, floated far away into the dark night,
in search of my lost lover.
Where is he at this hour ? I asked myself. Why has he
never communicated with my aunt since the fatal day when I
drove him from my side ? Had he such faith in the firmness
of my character as to believe that my vaunted resolution
would never change ? Silly fellow, to think that I could long
exist without his love. Ah, if he would only return, how
Sister Agatha. 463
much *I would endeavour to atone to him for my former
cruelty.
* # * #
" What a handsome couple ! " ejaculated my companion in
a low tone, and my glance following hers involuntarily, I saw
issue from the conservatory a tall gentleman supporting a
young and beautiful lady on his arm.
As they passed from the shadow of the heavy curtains into
the full light of the drawing-room, my heart gave a great
throb, and I nearly screamed with astonishment. The gentle-
man was John Elderfield !
" Are they not a handsome pair ? " demanded the voice at
my side.
"Who is the lady ?" I asked quite calmly.
"His wife. They have just returned from Italy, where
they have been passing the honeymoon. But what is the
matter ? Are you ill ? "
" No. I — I will go to my aunt. Pray excuse me."
I rose to put my design into execution, when suddenly
something snapped within my brain — the lights flickered
before my bewildered eyes — darkness rushed at me like a
torrent from every part of the room, and I was swept away
into the silence of eternal desolation.
Note by Helen Braintree.— The foregoing fragments
were found by me in an old manuscript book which lay among
a heap of papers left in a lumber closet by my predecessor.
The writing was blurred, and the words so hurriedly written
that they were nearly illegible, and this, doubtless, caused the
book to be regarded by its last possessor as a mere bunch
of wastepaper, for a great portion of the record was torn
out, here and there, just as the volume had opened to the
hand of the spoiler. Still, it appears to me to be quite easy
from the fragments which remain, by a slight exercise of the
imagination, to piece out the poor thing's history. I made
many enquiries about her, and at length discovered that one
or two of the elder attendants remembered a young and pretty
lady having been under restraint in the time of the former
matron, but they were quite unable to tell me with certainty
464 St. James's Magazine.
whether she recovered her reason, or whether she had died in
the asylum, — they were inclined to think the latter. I was
enabled to identify this young lady with the writer of the
fragments in my manuscript book when my subordinates
informed me it was the current belief of her companions
that she had been in a nunnery ; which belief arose from her
peculiar habits and odd observances, and from her insisting
on being addressed by all around her as — Sister Agatha.
To Zara; whose Heart he
KNOWETH NOT.
&ong:)&ocm, after tfce manner of ^emctu
HOU art mine own, my love beloved ;
And evermore shalt be
The only maid my soul adores,
The one dear love for me.
My heart is thine, my soul, my sense,
My being, life, and end ;
All, at thy feet I'll gladly lay
To be thy only friend.
If thou wilt love, oh hear my voice,
And be for ever mine ;
Bid this sad heart again rejoice,
And I am wholly thine.
Then for thy will the earth shall yield
Her treasures unto me ;
And waves shall bear thee priceless wealth
From lands beyond the sea.
If thou wilt not, my fate is sealed ;
Again I shall not love ;
The heart that hath been true to thee
Must ever constant prove.
To thy hard heart the winds shall breathe
My love's expiring sigh,
For if for thee I may not live,
I yet will dare to die.
Olla Podrida.
jUR last number went to press earlier than usual,
owing to the shortness of the month of February,
and we had not the pleasure of adding a few notes
on the past events. Looking around us, we see
that the aspect of affairs is not much brighter ; but still there
is a hope that after the Easter holidays trade will improve,
and the general state of the country resume a cheerful aspect.
There seems no prospect of war in the East ; and, indeed, any
person of ordinary judgment, who had taken the trouble to
make himself acquainted with the conditions of a war between
Russia and Turkey, would long since have concluded that foe
Russia to cross the Pruth with her mobilized army, would
have been simply to court destruction from want of food and
disease. Russia is at the mercy of her isolated position ; and
as in our case the sea, so with Turkey a strip of difficult
country defends her from the aggression of her foe, at least
at the present season of the year. This Russia knows but too
well by experience. When the events in the East are not so
all-absorbing as at present, we may hope that society will
return to its normal state, and trade will be vivified with the
advent of the summer sun and the smiles of peace. It is
difficult yet to predict what the result of the season will be ;
but once an impetus is given to the revival of trade, and the
commercial world wakes up, our vitality will assert itself
by a return of the prosperity we have long missed. After a
rest, activity will be renewed ; and unless our powers are
decaying, we shall be better off at the close of this year than
ever. Sincerely do we hope our predictions may be realised.
The Americans have proved that they are not behindhand
as regards reformation in woman's dress. An American Dress
League was inaugurated some months past in New York, the
466 St. James's Magazine.
object in view being to modify the present style of dress, and
not alone to promote greater freedom in female movement,
but also to curtail the fearful extravagance indulged in by
them, which has resulted in the ruin of fathers, husbands, and
children in but too many instances. It is the intention of the
League to adopt a dress something between the ancient Roman
costume and the modern Bloomer. At present it is hard to
say how far ladies will coincide with the innovation, for it is a
well-known fact that many ladies are devoted heart and soul
to the goddess of fashion, and would curtail their chances of
salvation rather than their skirts or trimming. It would not be
a bad idea for the legislators to enact a law to compel ladies
who will wear trains to submit to the penalty of employing
boys trained as a brigade for light employment to carry up
these appendages whenever they choose to appear in public
with them. This would not only save sumptuous dresses from
being ruined by acting as street sweepers, but also give employ-
ment to young boys at an age when they are not calculated to
undertake heavier duties, thus giving these juveniles the means
of earning their own living. But, joking apart, the American
ladies have made a step in the right direction; for anyone who
leaves an American ballroom unimpressed with the waste of
fashionable dressmakers and their clients, must be indeed blind
to the one peculiar vice of nineteenth-century women.
F. B.
Digitized by VjOOQlC
fg.*GAHf!Z
Digitized by VjOOQlC
A Flower Song.
[S« ^^547
J
Promethia.
*V v^
By ELLIS J. DAVIS,
AUTHOR OF "SEEN FROM THE CROSS OF ST. PAUl/S," ETC.
CHAPTER XXI.
GENESIS.
|ORNING, bright and beautiful morning, even
in the wintry season of the year, broke over my
head. I awoke to perfect consciousness and
memory of the scenes and events of the previous night.
The horrible dream of the vampire first came before me
in all its terrifying reality. There was no dawn of oblivion.
Only a certainty of recollection and a desire to see if the
things of the night would bear the reflection of day and the
light of the sungilt hours. I did not wait for any one . to
call me, but sprang from bed and dressed hastily, though
with some degree of care. My senses told me I had slept
later than usual, even before I looked at my watch and
found that the hour was nearly ten; soon I opened my
room door and descended to the library, in which I generally
passed the morning. I did not notice anything particular
about the house as I went along, and the vague feeling oL .
apprehension which filled my mind, in spite of all my effoij(^£\
to throw it off, began to settle down a little, as I placed &fm r*\
hand on the lock of the door, and paused for a momeflft
before entering to throw a glance around me.
There was no occasion whatever for my hesitation as th^
entire household was steeped in silence, and nobody seemed
to be as yet stirring. I was not surprised — the doctor's
establishment managed itself to a certain extent mechani-
cally— and there was not any sign of motion or anticipation
of the movements of myself or the other inmates. Where
vol. i. 33
468 St. James's Magazine.
the lady, who called herself the doctor's wife, was, or where
she took her meals, I could not imagine. My interest had
not even yet discovered these particulars about Promethia,
and the ways of the various habitants of this very singular
mansion were at present beyond my knowledge altogether,
and completely involved in mystery.
With a slight hesitation, I opened the door of the room,
and, to my surprise, found that it was not unoccupied.
Promethia was there before me, and she seemed to have
been awaiting my arrival with considerable anxiety, for
her gaze turned upon me in a half frightened, half eager
way, as I entered. She was sitting in front of the window
and had a book before her. Her right hand was supporting
her head, and the wealth of flowing hair, which, hanging
quite loose this morning, fell all around her in a confused
manner, tumbled, yet beautiful in its abandon. She was
dressed in a morning costume, open at the neck, and with
large, elegantly-fashioned sleeves, and her aspect was alto-
gether disturbed and different to her usual one. The left hand
lay on the open book. I noticed a wild light in her eyes as
they encountered mine, as if I had interrupted and terrified
her by my entrance, though from the first glance she had
given me, I conjectured that she had been expecting my
arrival. My immediate impulse was to retire ; my next, which
obeyed, to come forward and learn what troubled her.
The book she had been reading was a Bible. I approached
her and laid my hand on hers.
" Good morning," I said, " Is there anything wrong with
you, anything that distresses you ? "
" Much, much," she replied, rising and closing the book.
" But I am glad you have come ; I want to talk to you
when you have had your breakfast."
She went towards the table as she spoke, and poured out
my tea. Thus invited, and by no means sorry to avail
myself of her consideration, I sat down and enjoyed my
meal and the presence of the charming ministrant. To my
questions and conversation she gave but short answers. She
seemed so pre-occupied that I felt it unkind to talk, and
relapsed gradually into silence. There was nothing un-
pleasing in being quiet, for to sit and watch her was in
Promethia. 469
itself no slight pleasure, and every turn of her head, every
trifling motion of her body, only revealed some additional
grace or charm which I had, perhaps, noticed before, but
not hitherto regarded with sufficient attention. When I
had finished, I rose and rang the bell, while she resumed
her seat by the window, and seemed thinking how she
should speak to me of the subject on. which she needed
advice.
The servant removed the breakfast things and left us
alone again. I drew near her and took a seat on the other
side of the little window-table. Opening the Bible she had
closed on my entrance, I tried to help her to have con-
fidence in me.
" You were reading," said I, " the best of books. Was it
something in it that struck you, and about which you wished
to ask me ? "
She raised her eyes to mine.
" May I trust you ? "
" Entirely. With your life, with your hopes, with every-
thing for which you care. I love you. Is not that sufficient
guarantee of my devotion and trustworthiness ? "
As I said this, I bent towards her and looked into her
eyes with an intense gaze, which might well serve to
convince her of my earnestness. She answered slowly : —
" Supposing I told you something very dreadful about
myself, would you leave me and be unkind ? "
" Unkind to you, Promethia! You do not, you cannot
understand what love is, or you would not ask. Have I
not said I love you with all my heart, purely, truly,
devotedly. I love you for all time and to all eternity; and
can you think that such love will desert you when you
need it most ? Give me your entire confidence ; my great
love deserves it."
Why did she not then know what I meant ? Why did
she not throw her arms round my neck and let me take her
to my heart? My words, my manner, my whole being,
showed her my desire to do so; and one smile, one motion
of encouragement, would have bound me for ever to her
side ; would have made me happy, and her my loving wife
through this world and the next. For her I would have
470 St. James's Magazine.
risked all that could be risked, dared all man could dare.
I would have torn her from the doctor's house and taken
her with me to my own fair home. She should have been
my only care and consideration — my life, my only love. That
such was the state of my feelings, my words, my manner,
would have indicated plainly to any woman endued with the
sense and sensibility of her sex. But Promethia did not
seem to understand what was in my breast for her. She
looked at me, but rather with the gaze of enquiry than of
love. Her cheeks did not blush now, and her eyes returned
no answering love-light ; it was evident she could not think
in the same line as myself, and my passion was wasted and
my loving words unanswered.
She sighed a little, and turned to the sky for a moment.
Then she said very quietly : " I cannot trust you if you say
that, for I want your help, because I am a poor creature
deserving your pity, and not — not because — because, " she
broke down, and, dropping her head on her hands, folded
them on the Bible, and shed a few tears.
It was very distressing to witness her grief. I thought
of a thousand different things to comfort her, but not one
seemed to suit the occasion ; I had not succeeded in estab-
blishing that bond of sympathy which makes consolation
easy, and the words of affectionate compassion so sweet
to those for whom they are uttered. My love would have
guided me aright if she had returned it, or permitted me to
hope for a return ; but she neither responded to my senti-
ments, nor gave me the idea that she felt the truth and
depth of my devotion for her. I remained silent, only
watching with the utmost anxiety every movement of her
form, and listening to every sigh or sob which escaped her
bosom. Presently she recovered herself, and raised her
head from off her hands.
" Mr. Harte," she began, " you asked me of myself, and
I could not tell you. If I could tell you now, and my words
appeared very strange or extraordinary, would you believe
me ? And if I asked you what I ought to do for him would
you tell me? "
" Every thought I have, every wish, every power or cap
Digitized by VjOQK
Promethia. 471
bility of mine, is at your command, Promethia," I returned,
solemnly.
" Will you not say those things then, and let me speak to
you what is in my mind as to — to — a friend ; 4 suppose that
is what you call it. I have never had one, and she would
not let me speak to her. Will you let me say what is in my
mind freely, and not speak again about what you said this
morning."
" Not speak of my love, you mean, Promethia? The
command is hard, and I scarcely understand the reason of
the prohibition, but I will obey you if you wish it. Only
promise me this, that when you think you can love me ever
so little, if that time should come, you will tell me, and then
allow me to try and win you for my own."
She bowed her head in a sort of acquiescence, and I con-
tinued thus : " Then say to me all that you have on your
mind. Tell me everything, and trust me thoroughly. You
may need my assistance, and you shall have it as if I were
a brother. I will listen to you, and give you the bSst
counsel in my power."
My words seemed to re-assure her, and after a little
thought she began suddenly : " You asked me who I was.
I could not tell you; but he has told me my origin. Only
it seems so strange that he should have fashioned these
limbs, and I was reading here something so different."
She laid her hand on the Bible as she spoke.
Into my mind flashed the scenes of the previous night.
All I had seen, all I had heard, came before me suddenly.
I recollected all that had taken place between the girl and
the doctor, and at once I conceived that what I had listened
to was no dream, but it had actually transpired, and that,
as far as she was concerned, it had a really serious aspect.
She had, then, been told by him that he had made her, and
more, he had induced her to believe it. As I gazed upon
the perfect form before me, on the delicate features, the
expressive eyes, and the perfections of the undulating figure,
I could hardly credit my senses with the truthful report of
what she said. Had the doctor, indeed, succeeded in
making this poor girl believe in him ? Was it as bad as
that? And yet there could be no doubt of what was
472 St. James's Magazine.
passing in her mind, for I had now won her confidence, and
I felt that as she spoke she was concealing nothing from
me. How was I to dispel this horrible impression which
had probably taken a deep hold on a mind I now feared
had lost its proper balance, either through disease or
the wicked workings of the doctor upon a beautifully simple
and easily impressed nature ? There appeared to me to be
no other way than to argue the matter with her, taking it
for granted that her mind was under the influence of the
most recent impressions, and that she fully believed in the
truth of Dr. Delgardo's words.
" Promethia," I began, earnestly, " carry your mind back
to the earliest hours of your life, and try to remember those
who were dear to you. Think of a mother's care, of a
father's love, of the voices of children sounding merrily
in the bright morning, of the smiles of those who sought
to give you joy, of their care and affection. Think of some
peaceful home where you were the dear child, and the
proud hope of parents. Have you forgotten when that fair
hair was passed through a mother's delicate fingers ?
When a father took you on his knee and played with his
dear little daughter ; kissing her lips, and cheeks, and eyes,
to brighter smiles ? Have you no recollection of a home
where all was joy and happiness ? Where you were the
child of love and rejoiced in your youth and gaiety ? Think
well and tell me if you have no remembrance of all
these ? "
Promethia answered me slowly, and, after deep reflection :
" Of those things I have read, but they were never mine.
Do not turn from me incredulously, or imagine I am not
telling you the truth as it is in my heart. I have read this
book and I know that it is a wicked thing to tell a falsehood,
and I would not do it, not to save my life — not even for him
to whom I owe so much. I never had a home but this; I
remember no mother, no father, no love, no life such as you
have spoken of, neither do I believe I ever could have had
them, for I should not have forgotten the tender care of a
mother, or the loving kindness of a father. Is it not possible
that I n6ver possessed these happy things ? "
" Possible, certainly. You may have been all but bd8f$te
Promethia. 473
orphan. Tell me, have you no recollection of infancy, of
childhood, of a time when you were small in body, and weak
and helpless ? When you could not read and write, and
when you did not think as you do now ? Have you no
remembrance of some one teaching you to do these things ?
No recollection of learning, say, even to pray or to look
in that book before you, for the good and the beautiful ? It
is hardly possible your mind can be a blank to all the events
of infancy."
" Alas ! it is so. I remember nothing but what I told
you the other day. (He came to me and told me to get up.)
I never had to learn the things you talk of; I always could
read, and I loved to read what he gave me. I played
naturally, I sang because I felt inclined. You were the
first person who told me to learn anything, and for you I
learnt those songs you like. I have read a good deal and I
often think if I had not had books I should know nothing at
all ; I do not know very much. Ah ! it is not my fault, I
will learn, I will study, I will become very clever if you wish
it ; but I cannot tell you more of the past because I do not
know."
" Well then, think if you remember having some great
misfortune. Some long illness may have swept away from
your mind all memory of the past. Your mind may have
become a blank to the bygone times. Such things have
happened sometimes to the cleverest children, and I have
heard it told how in a night a wise man will become more
ignorant than the merest baby. Some accident or some freak
of nature may have passed across your life and deprived you
of the power of memory. It is not always a thing to be
regretted. There are many men who would willingly forget if
God would but let them. Ah ! I can sympathise fully with
those who are for ever doomed to remember. Do not let it
grieve you, but think of the first events you can call to
mind."
Slowly she answered :
" The other day I told you them. I know no more ; but
he has told me that I am his creature. He has said he made
me and I have seen the image from which I was made. It
was not his. He did not do like the Creator in this book
' Make Man in his own — ' "
474 S*. Jatnes's Magazine.
"Hush! hush!" I said," such an idea is blasphemy." (For
even I, an American, and as fast going a young man as
ever lived, reverence my God, a thing which in this age is,
perhaps, a little remarkable, and deserving observation.)
" Hush ! Promethia. Do you not know that the works of
the Almighty are sacred, and not to be mentioned in the
same breath with those of man, His servants ; it is taking
His name in vain to compare the workings of His creatures
with His divine actions."
She but half understood and returned —
" Is not this true, then, what it says : — * And God said let
us make man after our likeness.' Did not God do that ? or
is that but part of a story like the other books ? "
" Poor child," I whispered, and then aloud, " Promethia,
divine Promethia, listen to me : That book is God's sacred
word ; it is the law He gave thousands of years ago to man,
for his good and guidance, and every word therein is true.
The first books contain the history of the creation of the
world, and the birth and conduct of man in the earliest
times. God was pleased to tell man that He Himself, and
no other being, was the origin, the creator of our race, and
that is truth — unalterable, eternal, everlasting."
"Yes, I know it. I have read that and I believe it, because
— because, it tells me itself it is true. But is that about the
making of man told for all time? I did not think of it
before. I have thought much of it this morning. Why
should he tell me that if it was not true ? and why should
it not be true ? "
" Oh, Promethia, if you knew what all good men would
think of such a tale ? if you only knew the reason he had
for trying to make your innocence credit such a story ?
how he meant it to prey on your mind, ruined, alas ! by
God's affliction, you would cast aside such an idea in a
moment. Shall I tell you what I think of him ? "
" Yes, speak."
"Then -I tell you that his object is to make you
minister to his evil wishes; he loves you with a base and
unworthy passion. I thought at first, I will conceal nothing
from you, that you were his child, and that he had an unholy
desire to make you his in body and soul. I do not now
quite think that you have his blood in your veins."
Promethia. 475
She sprang up like a wounded hart, her eyes flashed, her
mouth opened with a wild scream ; but almost as suddenly
she sank to the ground, muttering " Blood ! blood ! Oh,
not his, not his."
So completely was I shocked and startled by this conduct,
that I had not even the power to stir to her assistance.
This was the second time the mere sound of the word
" blood " had produced such an effect upon her. My first
thought, on recovering, was to ascertain the idea connected
in her mind with blood, and, if possible, remove the horrible
impression which the mention of the word seemed to
revive. Had she been the guilty person or the victim ?
Perhaps some dark crime lay concealed in the lovely breast
of this apparently perfect woman.
CHAPTER XXII.
"I HAVE NO SOUL."
While I was thinking of how to assist her she recovered
her self-possession slowly, and rose, resuming her seat by the
table. The wild light died from her eyes, and her features
relaxed their fearful expression. As she sat down again she
grew calm and pale, and bade me go on and not mind her
strange behaviour.
"You startle me. I am not capable of understanding
your conduct. Tell me what there is so dreadful in the
mere mention of a word that it should make you ill like
this?"
" I cannot now ; it is a memory. My first one. Do not
ask, you shall know it, perhaps, some day. Go on with
what you were telling me."
" Well," I resumed, endeavouring for her sake to gather
my scattered senses, and continue my argument, " I was
saying that I did not now believe you were Dr. Delgardo's
daughter, but I credit him with the very worst intentions
towards you ; those intentions I have resolved to thwart,
because I love you, and because I am a man. Now listen.
476 St. James's Magazine.
If you love him, say so at once ; if not, trust to me for
your protection and deliverance, and I will meet him
fearlessly."
" No, no, you must not hurt him. You have said a good
deal, but not to the purpose. He has told me he is my
maker, my creator; to him, then, I owe everything, and I
feel it too — love, duty, honor, affection, submission. What
claim can anyone have on me before him. He gave me all,
and shall I not return him the best I can ? Say, if you had
your Creator at your side, what would you do ? "
" He has used great power over you for evil," I returned.
" He seems to have convinced you of the truth of his
imposture. The idea which possesses your mind is absurd ;
there never was but one Creator, and He is the great God,
who lives beyond our reach, whose habitation is in heaven,
and but for His gracious mercy beyond our knowledge. If
the doctor has been kind to you, and taken care of you, it
is, of course, right that your heart should feel gratitude,
and endeavour to repay his affectionate care in the best way
you can ; but if his passions lead him to make improper
proposals; if through the medium of such an iniquitous
deceit, he tries to induce you, a noble, chaste woman, or
rather a simple-minded girl, to give up to him all that woman
values most, then, I say, the debt of gratitude is cancelled,
and you dare not obey or trust him further."
" But," she suggested, after a pause, " if he made this
frame, has he not a perfect right to do with it as he likes ? "
" I cannot reason from such a standpoint. It is impos-
sible. That he has made you believe it is strange ; but I
can, nevertheless, account for it rationally. You are under
his influence, and his making such an evil use of his power
over you is one of the greatest reasons for his condemnation
by all honest men and women. But you shall not remain
in suspense long. This very evening I will resolve the
question for you, and he himself shall, in your presence,
confess his falsehood. I will know, too, what are his real
motives, and, if necessary, I will rescue you out of his
hands, and save you from his dark designs."
Promethia listened to me with eager eyes. 1^ cot-
perceive that she was struggling internally between *
Promethia. 47 jr
attraction to me and her sense of duty to him ; but what
puzzled me was to resolve whether this sense of duty was
innate or acquired. If he was her father, solicitude for him
was but natural, and the battle I should have to fight
would, in all probability, prove a hard one. Love had not
even to be enlisted on my side against duty, but single-
handed I must meet him, and vanquish him on his own
ground. Yet I did not fear, for it occurred to me that he
would never, for one moment, dare to attempt to impose
upon a man of my character and force of intellect with a
story that he might invent to subdue the honor of a weak
girl. Unless he had become mad himself, it was hardly
likely that the story I had heard him tell and act the night
before would be repeated by him in broad daylight in my
presence. I should think he was as anxious as any man
about his reputation. A medical man, a character of
stainless purity, was necessary to his living, and how would
he dare to produce such a story as this for the ridicule of
the world at large, and his own exposure. No ; if I taxed him
boldly with the truth, as I had heard it from his lips the
night before ; if I told him what I had seen, and demanded
an explanation of what he meant by it ; if I announced my
intention of protecting Promethia from him at all risks,
what could he do but admit the truth, however mortifying
it might be. And yet, when I thought of that midnight
scene, of the room, and the model, and the effect which the
whole had produced on me and Promethia ; when I thought
of the words uttered by the doctor's wife, and how she
believed in her husband's evil works, some shadow of doubt
in the power of my own intelligence to reason upon what
was going on around me, passed through my mind. I did not,
however, fear to meet him, but felt as anxious as possible
for the encounter. Meanwhile, to convince Promethia, I
said, further : —
" If I could talk to you as to an ordinary person, there
would be no difficulty in showing that his motives must be
those I have mentioned; but you, unfortunately, are
situated in a peculiar position. I imagine your life has
been spent entirely alone?"
" Much, much," she answered.
478 St. James's Magazine.
" And of the time passed during your childhood no
memory remains ? It is strange you do not remember the
early years of your life. Few ever forget them ; but I
must take things as they are. Let me, then, point out to
you the probable truth of the doctor's motives for telling
you this wild and improbable story."
" I ought not to listen to anything against him," she said,
half deprecating my intention, "but I cannot help it."
" Neither need you fear to listen to me, for I will not say
anything tended to wound your most sensitive feelings.
That you are a most beautiful and desirable woman I have
told you often. First, upon your own invitation, and since,
many a time, to win your regard in exchange for my praise. Ah,
I know you do not return my feelings, but I hope you will do
so yet. Love is a different thing to desire. For your sake my
whole nature has changed ; for your sake I would dare all
things and brave all dangers ; for your sake I would live ;
for your sake I would die. But these sentiments are not to
be breathed in the same atmosphere with the glowing sighs
of passion. My love for you, though born perhaps of the
desire of the eye and the sense, has become a something far
different. It is a holy, pure feeling ; a sentiment not to be
mentioned lightly, or spoken of without solemnity. Oh,
Promethia, if you knew how I have changed in mind, in
heart, in feeling, since the love for you has awakened to
life within my breast, you would compassionate me a
little ; you would believe in the fulness of my devotion, and
return the love of your heart for mine. But passion is a
different thing. Passion desires only the possession of its
object, the satisfaction of a fierce, and frequently an evil
desire. True love casteth out fear, and true love casteth out
the unholy sentiments which are the birth of licentious habits
and unbridled passions. In my heart there is nothing but
the wish for your joy. In his it is a different thing
altogether. You do not, you cannot quite understand it.
He is a married man. He has pledged his life, and his love,
and his faith, to another woman, and it is a crime against
the majesty of God to think of any but his wife with the
feelings and desires he has professed to entertain for you.
Knowing this, and feeling that your purity would revolt
Promethia. 479
against an idea of such evil as he contemplates offering to
you, he has tried to overcome your beautiful nature by this
absurd story, his desire being to make you his slave, his
creature, the willing and submissive ministrant to his
criminal passion. Read that book closer, Promethia, and
you will find that such a sin is not rare among men. You
will also gather therefrom strength of mind to resist the
temptation to yield to his importunities, to the wishes
which he has endeavoured to make you receive as com-
mands spoken from a creator to a creature."
She listened to me attentively, but was not convinced ;
she seemed to understand all I said and urged upon her
consideration, but her faith was nevertheless unshaken.
Certainly he had established a powerful hold upon her
imagination.
" If," she said, " you are correct he would be base,
wicked, detestable, and I should not love and obey him any
more ; but it is not so. Do you know he is now working,
working hard to make me happy? He says so. I believe
what he says."
It suddenly struck me I had better tell her what I had
overheard the previous night, and I did so as briefly as
possible. She was not astonished and expressed no
vexation.
" And was not all that enough to convince you he spoke
truth?" was her remark. " That model, was it not like me ?
Does he not love me as he says ? Ah ! I cannot teach my
heart to doubt my maker."
" Is it possible he can have so infatuated you? The pre-
sence of that model merely proves that some skilful person
has shaped a waxen likeness of your perfections with a
thoroughly artistic hand ; the promise of his love and the
resolve to labour for your happiness were made to restore
your confidence in him. What do you think he means to
do for you?"
" I do not know, but I dare say he will tell me in good
time ; perhaps — I have thought it sometimes — to take back
the life he gave. I am not always glad that I live."
" That I can well understand, because you have not love,
I mean not the love that brings joy and goodness and hope
480 St. James's Magazine.
with it. If you had these your life would be a beautiful
thing, depend upon it. Try and love me as I love you,
Promethia."
" You promised not to say that," she returned, a shadow
of vexation crossing her fine features. " You must not think
of that ; I cannot do as you ask me, and I do not like to be
unkind to you who have been so good to me always."
" I must submit to wait, then, but I shall have no peace
until I succeed in making you believe as I do. Perhaps a
little more reflection on your part will restore the memory
of that past which seems to have faded away from your
mind altogether. One link in the chain of events might
recall all the rest. I will make the doctor disclose his
knowledge."
But for the doctor she seemed alarmed, and she spoke
with strong feeling in her voice as she begged of me.
" Promise me, my friend, not to hurt him, not to vex or
annoy him in any way. I cannot but feel my duty to obey
his wishes strong upon me. I am bound to love him and
honor his dictates. Ah! if the good God of whom this
book is full would but come to me as he came to some of
these people of old and tell me what is right for me to do,
I should then again be happy. I was happy when you told
me I was fair, and until he said those things which made me
think so much of myself and him. Ah! I cannot conceal
what my heart dictates. I must obey its teachings whether
they be right and for good, or wrong and for evil. Tell me,
do you think I am very wrong in what I do from day to
day ? If you were God, would you punish me very much ? "
She looked at me with an imploring gaze as she awaited
my opinion of her conduct.
"These are not things to be spoken of lightly, Promethia,"
was my reply ; " God is a God of love and mercy, and He
alone is a judge of the actions of his creatures, when they
deserve reward and when punishment. But His mercy and
love are always accessible to the prayers of man, and if you
throw yourself at his feet, and beg of Him to forgive you
and guide your erring mind aright, the help you seek will
come. You will learn to judge for yourself of your own
actions whether they be right or wrong."
Promethia. 481
" But, but, I am not his. I am the creature of Dr.
Delgardo alone. Nay, never shake your head, I feel it is so.
Will God, great and good as you say He is, receive my
prayers and answer them ? or will He refuse my requests ?
In a book I once read it told me all about praying and all
that you have said; but I never found an answer come to
me though I have spent hours on my knees. He will listen
to me, perhaps, but He does not send me peace and happi-
ness and the things I wish for. Do you get them when you
pray to him ? "
" Promethia, you misunderstand these things altogether.
God is not like a man to whom you can go up and say ' Do
this for me/ or ' Give me that.' God is a spirit above this
earth and far away, yet ever near. Talking of His majesty
and goodness thus reminds me that I have not obeyed Him
as a man should ; that often and often I have forgotten His
mercy and loving kindness, his commandments, and turned
aside, like the wicked Jews of old, to the worship of other
gods ; but that was before I learned to love you. Now God
and His might, God and His goodness, are to me actualities,
and I feel His existence, His greatness. I tremble before
His power and pray for His mercy.' '
She looked at me, and was convinced by the expression
of my countenance of the sincerity of my words. Indeed, I
felt the force of what I was saying most deeply. Religion
had been to me a thing thoroughly understood, but never
sufficiently acted on, or I had scarcely complained so bitterly
of the dulness of life, for true religious sentiment is a cure
for all this world's evils. He who trusts in God and the
goodness of the Almighty need never feel the world dull, or
the want of occupation, for the love of God has a duty
which it imposes upon all — to extend the glory of His name.
Why had these ideas never been present to my mind before?
All I can say is that the love felt for Promethia and the
necessity of antagonism to a man like the doctor called
forth in my heart qualities which had henceforth lain
dormant. It was not because my life had been useless hitherto
that it was always to remain so, nor was I to perish miserably
from ennui and fatigue from lazily doing nothing? There
was something better within me. I began to feel it as I sat
482 St. James's Magazine.
there talking. Her appeal to my better instinfcts, her con-
versation'on the Holy Book, had reminded me of the first
truths which I had learnt in infancy from the masters who
had striven to make a good man of me. My heart was
roused to nobleness, and I spoke, as I felt, from its very
depths. Her answer to my words convinced me that I had
spoken well.
" You speak of that God as a being you know, a being to
whom you owe much, and who will give you more though
not in a material way. I can understand your meaning,
and I myself could feel something of the same kind were I
His as you are. Your life came from Him as this book says,
and you will again go back to Him, but I shall not, for I
am not of the same life as you and I shall perish for ever.
The thing you call a soul is not in me. I am but a creature
of flesh and blood. You see therein lies the difference, and
will your God listen to a girl without a soul ? "
It was a terrible moment. It was awful to sit and hear
this. I could not endure it — and yet while she kept me
at arm's length, while she refused to answer my love with
hers, what could I do ? I had no right to the possession
of her undivided sympathy and trust. Until I obtained it
how could I convince her of the truth ? I could not go up
to the doctor and say to him what I thought lest Promethia
should interfere between us, and then he would not only
conquer her but me also. I felt that this man was beyond
me unless her power was linked to mine ; but why should
she not love me? and together we two could conquer his
wickedness and bring forth the truth from his lips. If
Promethia had parents, from whom she was separated, I
might discover who they were and restore her to them ; if
she had not, I might give her a home and make her my true
wife. Then happiness would be mine, and I thought it will
be strange if my great love for her does not overcome all
the obstacles her coyness interposes and make her as
fond of me as I am of her. True love generally meets with
its reward, and I would show her by a life of devotion that
I hungered for her heart only.
I was impelled to plead for this right again.
" Do hear me once more, Promethia," I said, " and give
Promethia. 483
me the right to speak still further to you. Only say you
love me, only say that you will accept my love and be my
wife and I will wait your time for the fulfilment of the
promise. My life, my hopes, and I believe your happiness,
depend upon your consent to be mine."
" Marriage is an invention of some evil-minded person, for
the purpose of propagating the race of man, and enjoying
the misery of the sufferings of flesh," said a voice close to
my ear.
In blank astonishment I turned, and there stood Dr.
Delgardo at my elbow, with a cold smile on his features,
and a cigar between his finger and thumb.
How had he entered ? Neither of us heard the door open
and there was no other mode of ingress ; the window, which
opened on to the garden, was closed, the door was shut, the
ceiling had no hole in it ; the appearance of the room and the
furniture was not in any way altered or disturbed, and I
could not make out how he came in without attracting my
notice. Still, there stood the doctor and not his ghost. He had
overheard my words, and there was nothing for it but to
face it out ; besides, I now felt bold as a lion, so I said : —
" Many of us make rash statements of opinion which we
often have to withdraw. I no longer think so."
" So be it," was his simple answer, and then he began
talking of the weather and the news, just as if he had come
into my room to wish me good morning in the ordinary way,
and taking no notice at all of Promethia, who remained
silent as usual in his presence.
CHAPTER XXIIIN^VV YO*^
A MID-DAY SLUMBER.
I could do nothing but fall in with his conversation and
acquiesce in his mood, neither did I attempt to get him
round to the subject of Promethia, for he seemed utterly
unconscious of her presence in the room^itaj^y(she sat there
like a marble figure, without so much as even glancing up
vol. 1. 34
484 St, James's Magazine.
at tiny face while we were talking, I do not know what 1
said. He certainly had the best part of such conversation
as ensued. I could not think very clearly of the drift of his
observations, and my replies at last became merely me-
chanical, but he showed no irritation or annoyance at this
absence of mind; he simply rattled on pleasantly enough, of
the news in the papers, of the prospects of foreign and home
affairs, of the commercial aspect of the country, of the
coming winter, and the anticipated bad weather, which, by
a singular circumstance, had not set in that year, though it
had been foretold by all those well-known signs given by
various trees and animals and so forth, signs which the
learned in such matters are always anxious to interpret for
the benefit of the public, through the medium of numberless
letters to the Times, and publication in three other
periodicals, which fill their columns with such communica-
tions at the dull season of the year.
After a few moments, however, and apparently finding
that I was becoming really too inattentive, he wished me
good morning and left the room, without my having been
able to ask one question on the subject nearest my heart. He
never referred to the conversation he had overheard ; he
never spoke to, or looked at, Promethia ; but walked out of
the chamber and left it as silently as he had entered, only
that I heard the door open and close behind him.
. No sooner had he left than Promethia became all life
again. She rose, saying: —
" We have talked solemn enough for one morning. I
cannot understand at all, but I must wait. Shall I sing? "
" No, no, please ; my mind is too agitated to think of any-
thing but you, and while that is the case your singing and
music would not charm me. Oh, if you had but given me
an answer to my question."
" Please, please," she entreated, " be good and let me
amuse you."
I did not answer. I let her do as she liked. My mind
wandered off to the consideration of how the doctor could
possibly have entered the room, and I let my eyes roam
over the whole of the chamber around and around, while
Promethia, took up some music (she had taken to singing
Promethia. 485
the songs I had mentioned now) and began to touch the piano
gently. As I did not interrupt her her touch grew firmer,
and presently she began to sing sweetly as was her wont.
Her voice soothed me and took me for the time out of
myself. She had a great influence over my nerves. Her liquid
notes seemed to still the wild beating of my heart, and
smoothe down the excited state of my whole system. I sat
back in my chair, and, while gazing on the songster, forgot
our late conversation, forgot the doctor, forgot the events
that had weighed so heavily on my mind, and was content
to look and listen and ask no other happiness. Oh, to have
her to look at and listen to all through life ! would such
bliss ever be my portion in this world of sorrow ? She did
not seem conscious of the full effect of her music over me,
but she knew I liked it, and when, having finished the first song
(it was : " My mother bids me bind my hair," and she sang
with surpassing sweetness), she asked me if she should
continue, and what song she should sing, I answered
indifferently. I tried to sit up and speak, but while I did so
I became gradually aware of a strange sense of weariness
and oppression stealing upon and over me. As I looked at
the beautiful singer, my eyes closed, my breath grew heavy,
my limbs felt faint and weary beneath me, and the room
began to spin round and round. I fancied I was going to
faint, or die. I tried to scream but could not, and at last I
sank off into a slumbrous state, in which I had no conscious-
ness of what was going on around me, but in which I was
not dead or actually sleeping.
I may here observe that, rightly or wrongly, I attributed
that sleep to a mesmeric influence, and, though I have often
tried to reason about the matter, I have never been able to
arrive at any other conclusion concerning it. What occurred
while I lay there I do not know. I remember a confused
sound of voices, one of which was the doctor's, and the
other Promethia's ; but the subject of their discourse
escaped me, and I am uncertain whether or not a third
person entered and left the room, and took part in it. I
suppose I at last became unconscious, for when I came at
all to myself it was late in the day, and I woke slowly.
I did not feel the slightest inclination to eat, though, as a
486 St. James's Magazine.
rule, luncheon was a meal at which I had a fairly good appe-
tite. I was all alone, and in the same room I had occupied in
the morning. At first I started up and fancied I only dropped
off for a moment, and the darkness of the sky was attribut-
able to clouds or rain ; but the clock opposite convinced me
that the morning and afternoon were gone, and I was
puzzled to account for what had taken place, but I soon
began to recover, and rose from my chair. The first sen-
sation which came into my mind was a most singular one —
my ear, the right one, and that which in my dream had
been threatened by the Vampire Bat tingled strangely. I
thought at first I had perhaps been lying on it in the chair,
and the pressure had given me a cramp in the organ.
But no ; it was not that sensation. I went to the glass ; I put
my hand up to feel it, and could not either, from the
reflection or the touch, discover anything unusual, but the
feeling became more intense. Surely something had been
done to it. I pulled the lobe to see that it was all there in
perfect safety, thinking with horror of the strange conduct
of the doctor on that first morning, and also of the curious
incidents of my terrible dream during the previous night. The
flesh was securely fastened to my head, the organ had
received no injury, and yet I felt certain that something
had been done to it. I looked and looked, and pulled, and
rubbed, and tugged, but nothing gave me any indication of
events, until I chanced to discover a little bit of a waxy-looking
substance lying on the chair in a corner, just near to the
spot on which my head had rested while I was sleeping, or
dosing, or insensible ; it was hard like cobbler's wax, and
smelt rather strong of the usual odor of that substance.
This find might then give me some clue; the doctor or
someone in his establishment had been taking a cast from
my ear ; the more I thought over it, the more the sensation
I experienced seemed to point to the conclusion I have
stated.
" Now, what on earth," thought I, " should that doctor
want with the cast of my ear, and how did he manage to
get me asleep while he took it ? Had he purposely
administered some opiate to me in my food ? DI£|<x(gpust
begin to be careful of what I eat, or I should be poisoned;
Promethia. 487
and yet, what could be his object? He had no grudge
against me, and certainly I was too insignificant an
individual to be worth murdering, with the chance of being
hanged for the deed. While, on the other hand, if, for
experimental purposes, he wanted a cast of my * ear on
account of its great beauty, all he had to do was to have
asked me to allow him to take it."
Yet that something of the kind had been done tp me, I
felt sure, and that he had succeeded in getting me to sleep
for the purpose of taking this liberty with my ear there
seemed not a shadow of doubt. Strange that the dream
had not been sufficiently forcible to enable me to guard
against this intention on his part. Would he next suck my
blood like the vampire ? I confess I began to think it
possible. But what should he do that for? No, no; he
might have taken a cast of my ear to add to some model
he was making ; but to murder me ! he would hardly do
that. And yet I would be cautious, and distrust the least
hostile appearance on his part.
Thinking thus, I pulled myself together, as it were, and
mounted to my room to dress for dinner. The shock of a
sluice of cold water over my face revived me. I felt
appetite returning, and descended into the library prepared
to join the doctor at dinner and enjoy it. As I was about
to open the door of the room, however, I heard voices
within. The doctor was speaking in a louder tone than
usual. He said : —
"You must leave this, as everything else, to me. I
cannot be guided by such considerations as are now
operating on you, child. Have patience. You know
nothing of this as yet. Trust in me, and my love will not
allow me to do you wrong/ '
" But only if — ," was the reply in the voice of Promethia,
"only if you could do this without altering your plans.
Ah, do not treat me so like a far-off thing. I would be near
to your thoughts, and I would ask of you to consider my
prayer with kindness. Not him ! not him ! Do not fear I
shall do contrary to your wishes. But oh! let him be
unhurt." 0igitized by GoOQle
" Who said I should hurt him ? Am I likely ? Did I
488 S/. James's Magazine.
not cure him ? If I had wished him evil, it is not probable
I should have taken so much trouble • about his health.
We must all suffer pain sometimes. I warn you not to
interfere again."
li I will not. Forgive me. But ah, he has been good
and kind, and you will not hurt him ? No, you cannot. I
dare not question you. Be kind ; be generous, and grant
my prayer.' '
" Hush !"he answered, as he seemed to apprehend inter-
ruption.
The next moment I was in the room. The occupants
were Promethia and the doctor, but they were standing
far apart, and, unless I had heard the conversation, I
should never have known that anything had recently passed
between them, for her eyes were cast down on a piece of
work which engaged her attention, and he was reading a
book as if his life depended on it.
" Good afternoon, doctor," said I.
" Good evening, rather, Mr. Harte ; you seem to have got
your time all wrong to-day, breakfast at ten and no lunch,
and now thinking of luncheon when it is time for dinner. I
hope you have a good appetite. I begin to think you must
have arrived at the change-of-air stage. All my patients do,
except the unfortunates."
" You mean the lunatics. Well, I shall not be sorry tt>
get a sniff of the sea one of these days, but I am in
no hurry to leave here ; indeed, you are so kind that I would
not willingly go just yet, unless you promised me to come
and see me in America. But I don't know whether I shall
go back there or not."
" There is not the least chance of my ever coming as far
as New York. A doctor's practice does not give him much
holiday to begin with, and then mine is a connection that if
once broken up could not be easily got together again. But
if you return to America you will pay England a visit next
year, and I shall always be glad to see you. I should like
to show you some more of my place before you leave. I
have many curiosities below. I collect them."
" Physiological ones, I presume." ^ byGoo<?Ie
Yes ; but all curiosities have an interest of their own for
Promeihia. 4S9
a man of your tastes, Mr. Harte, and I can assure you an
hour or two will not be wasted in my private rooms. They
are all downstairs, because when I am at work I like to be
out of the way."
I was about to reply, but dinner was announced, and I
offered my arm to Promethia. She did not, however, accept
it. The doctor caught me by the elbow and motioned me
to let her pass first, and she obeyed the intimation in silence.
We followed, and were soon seated before an excellent meal.
My appetite was now good and I enjoyed my dinner. The
doctor entertained me with lively converse, but somehow or
other we drifted into special lines of thought. I asked him
about our conversations of the other day. He felt disposed
to continue it, and one thing and another led me to ask him
how far he had gone in the elucidation of the mystery of
human life. He had not told me much about himself and
his studies before, and my remark led to his offer to go fully
into the subject.
" It is not easy to tell you much in a short time ; but if
you care to hear all I have to say on the subject we will
make a night of it," he said.
" I shall be delighted. Just take up your own starting
point and we will work from that, if you please. I have
thought a good deal of your statement the other night that
you had followed Nature down to her last retreat. I should
like to know what such a boast means, and what such studies
led to, if you don't mind enlightening me."
" You shall hear, Mr. Harte."
So saying he signed to Promethia to leave the room,
which she did. Then he drew his chair near the fire-place
and motioned to me to do the same. The servant placed
some wine and glasses handy, and we settled down comfort-
ably by the fire.
" Digitized
by Google
49° St. James's Magazine.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE DOCTOR'S TRIUMPHS.
"You see," he began, "that these things are not to be
examined by the common herd. In every age there have
been individuals, and in some ages many persons, who have
pursued science beyond what cowards call its legitimate
limits. They have met with different fates, but seldom with
the appreciation which is really their due. It is not in the
paths of science alone that this evil has been developed.
Many and many an artist, whose original genius led him
from the beaten track, has suffered bitterly for his devotion
to his art, and but too often the persecutions to which
he has been subjected have been set on foot and fostered
by the brethren who should before all others have stood
forward to protect their associate. It is not in the nature
of man to understand God. He may look up to him with
awe, and worship at a distance, but let the God come into
his midst, let him live and act and suffer among the gaping
crowd, and what is the result ? Look at the history told by
our church. They will stone him, revile him, crucify him.
The rabble are base, and that which is base cries out loudly
for its own baseness, and vents its illwill on the thing
which displays its vices in their true colors. So also does
the vulgar herd treat the man a little above its capacity of
comprehension. Great men who cannot stoop to win
popularity must live for themselves alone, and if they once
allow their minds to meet and thwart the prejudice of the age
in which they live their condemnation is certain. This
is why alchemy, in reality chemistry and chemical research,
was branded as sorcery ; this is why the elixir of life was
never found; and this is the reason why the greatest
discoveries that man has ever made in the science of life
have perished with the men who made them, and it now
appears as if they always will so perish. Do you follow
" Most certainly; but," I added, rising to comlalhim, *°l
Promethia. 491
do not admit that your arguments are correct. There is in
useful knowledge an innate principle which preserves itself.
If a man discover anything of real utility to his race, it
soon becomes available for them and their welfare. It may
be that with the changes of race and climate, with the
shifting of the tides of civilisation and progress, some
secrets of the greatest utility are lost, some arts perish, and
some morality perishes, but then this is due to the
mutability of man as a race, not to the fact of the utility
ceasing, or the failure of the value of the things forgotten.
With illegitimate knowledge, it is wholly different. Nature
makes every effort to eradicate disease, and mental disease
shows itself in the way you have been explaining. A man
should limit his inquiries to the ascertainment of such
things as it behoves humanity to know, and not look into
the face of heaven as a mere curious impertinent. God
has fixed the limits of man's knowledge, and He decrees
that the inquirer who oversteps them shall perish with the
result of his improper searchings."
" And who among men, then, to meet you on your own
ground, shall fix that limit ? Who shall say, ' Thus far
shall thy intelligence pierce and no further?' Some sail
the seas to the viewless climes and discover new islands,
new homes for the joy of man and beast, new spots for the
growth of the products that rejoice the heart of our race
and contribute to our daily welfare. Others explore wild
continents or primaeval forests, to open up land hitherto the
territory of the lion and the jackal only. Sometimes they
find beneath the virgin soil that curse of all mankind — gold.
Sometimes they meet with unknown tribes of savages ;
sometimes they die in the misshapen land, and their bones
are never laid at rest in the quiet churchyard. Others,
again, go raving mad in the pursuit of that modern phantom,
the sea serpent. Others risk their own lives and those of
' our brave sailors in the endeavour to reach an imaginary
Pole, as useless to mankind when it is found as is the ice
which girds its heart and blocks up all access to it., - Well,
which of these is legitimate, my friend? God has bid man
guard life, and see how he makes opportunities for sacrificing
it." .
492 St. James's Magazine.
" There is no comparison, Dr. Delgardo. Man has a
grand mission to fulfil on earth, and if you quote Scripture,
I, too, can remind you of this tejet — * Be fruitful and multi-
ply, and replenish the earth and subdue it.' To subdue earth
it is that man undertakes these perilous adventures, and
his labour to that end is noble. To make way for the wel-
fare of thousands is a grand and worthy action. A career
spent in exploration may be dangerous, full of hardships
and troubles, and often, from a practical point of view, use«
less ; but the deeds of such a one have never been thrown
away. They are as seeds sown in a fragrant soil, the soil
of the human heart, and they must take root there and
flourish. Your pursuits are different ; if they are not alto-
gether chimerical, they have nothing to recommend them,
not even the possibility of their leading you on to some
useful discovery of benefit to humanity." •
His brow contracted as if in wrath ; he seemed about to
break forth into an angry reply, but beneath my steady gaze
he released the frown. Sighing deeply, he looked on me
with a compassionate smile, and returned : —
" Ah, me ! must it be always the same ? Mr- Harte, you
are a man who should be above all prejudices. You have
tried to learn much ; you have travelled and observed much
during your travels. You have done a yet more important
thing — you have thought over all that you have seen, and
incorporated the ideas of the most advanced thinkers and
writers with your own. Will you listen to me fairly if I
speak to you yet more in detail ?"
" Certainly I will, and, if your arguments are sound, de-
pend upon it my mind will receive them as they deserve.
There is no shadow of prejudice in my thoughts on any
subject. Every question you raise shall be referred to the
decision of intellect, and of intellect alone. I am ready to
hear everything you are pleased to say, and what is com-
municated shall be digested well before it is dismissed. "
Can I say more ?"
" No; that is enough. I believe, then, you will hear. j»e
with patience, I am #ot going to speak of myself, or my
early life. It would, doubtless, interest you, and you may
hear it some day, but not now. You must, however, remem-
Promethia. 493
ber that my education was not an ordinary one, and my
mind from infancy wandered into peculiar channels of
thought and enquiry. I may mention also as an instance
of the foreshadowing of childhood, that I often amused my-
self by making models of different creatures in clay or wax. I
think it was the reading of a story in the ' Caballa ' that gave
me the first idea of the possibility of human power over life.
Of course I have read the wild fiction of Frankinstein, and
the sublime myth of * Prometheus,' and, indeed, the name
I gave Promethia, though I purposely spelt her title with
ah i instead of an e, was very likely suggested by my memory
of the unhappy Titan. I recollect, too, many tales of the
same kind, such as " Pygmalion and Galatea,1 ' and others.
The * Caballa ' of the Hebrews contain several, the Eastern
legends have a few, and in Chinese lore they are also to be
found. Well, I had an idea, and to it I still hold, that
everything which the imagination of a man has power to
conceive may be accomplished by him in time and with , ' \
patience. A bold idea you think. I do not wish to boast ,/& x
but you will hardly call me a coward. These stories had] W
a certain fascination for me as I then read them, but nothing * }
more; they were uncertain, vague, and ended unsatisfac: >**
torily. What did Prometheus accomplish ? Nothing. His ;"i
labours were for men as men ; his utmost success achieved
nothing more than the Power he defied would have willingly
granted in time. It is no use quarreling with the ancient
Greeks ; they imagined to the extent of their powers, and the
beings they created will stand forth while the present world
exists boldly and individually ; but these myths and stories
and tales did no more than stimulate my curiosity. You
have spoken of illegitimate knowledge, of researches for-
bidden to man. Shall I tell you that my labours were
stimulated by a desire to benefit my race and by no other
Wish."
I gave a start. Was it possible this demon-man, who, on
his own confession, had sinned a deep and fearful sin against
bis Maker, was about to justify his criminality on the
ground of humanity ? I could not believe my senses.
Excuses for his wrong-doing he might make, penitence he
might ignore, sorrow might be no- part of the motives
494 SL James's Magazine.
urging him to this confession, but was it credible that
man's hypocrisy could go further? Was it possible he
could, even to himself, pretend that his labours had been
actuated by good and sincere motives ?
He noticed my agitation, but with a gentle wave of his
hand to quiet me, he continued : —
" Yes, for man's welfare only I determined to pursue a
labour, which, for his sake, became a labour of love.
Understand me clearly on this point. If a mere curious
desire to boast a knowledge unobtainable by other men had
prompted my researches, I should have been unworthy the
name of man, unfit for the profession to which I belong,
unsuited to the attainment of the knowledge I coveted. But
let me assure you, my dear Mr. Harte, that my motives
were not such as these. I was actuated only by a desire to
improve the condition of my race, or, rather, of the race I
desired to see the possessors of the earth. I looked around
me and I saw what others had seen of this motley
community of men. I saw that, as a race, they were all
more or less faulty; there was a want of something in
humanity as at present it existed, and I said to myself
' What is that want, and how can it be supplied ? ' The
answer came to me after long and anxious thought. Man is
imperfect ; his constitution lacks several things, but the
principal cause of the failing of both his bodily and mental
functions is to be traced back to one evil, the degeneracy of
his strength. To accomplish all that he should be capable
of, man must be a far more powerful creature. It is true
that against such a theory you may urge that his very
weakness has taught him to resort to the means of self
defence, and that his defensive armour is among his best
works; but, on the other hand, if it were not for his
weakness, he would be very much greater, and, indeed, a
man in the most perfect health and vigour, strong and
active, is about the most fit creature that the earth can
show. But modern man is never fit* and even when
he is at the very best of what Nature has grown
him into, he is ever far inferior to what he may and
ought to be ; besides, the present race of earth is a
worn out and feeble race. I care not to discover
Promcthia. 495
whether we descended from apes or baboons, or from Mr.
Darwin's ancestors in some other shape, but this is certain,
that man has in his constitution the roots and seeds of
diseases without number. He is enfeebled from his birth
by mental and moral inheritances which he will never over-
come, for, from the mere necessity of the means by which
he is propagated, his life must have the contamination of
humanity ever within it. He has achieved many triumphs
in his imperfect state, but what has the history of man, as
long as we have any record of it , tended to prove ? Only this —
that he has varied, sometimes being a little better, at others
a little worse, but always weak in the mass, and only greater
and better and happier in the individual. Even among the
most perfect races that have ever inhabited the globe, the
same evils that now pollute it were present, and then prevailed
in many instances to a greater extent, than at times when
the countries and civilizations were less perfect. Man has
always been weak, feeble, and a failure, and the only
distinction between different races has been one of
degree. Religion — the religion of Moses and Christ — was
to have made him altogether better. With the advent of
the Revelation, with the descent of the Saviour, it was
promised that he should become something superior, but
the time passed, the religion failed, and man is little better,
if even as good, as he was before. The race of
modern times is fearfully degenerate, not alone in its
lower classes, and not alone in its moral aspect; but
as a race of beings inhabiting a world which is theirs
and theirs alone, by the strong right of possession.
How has man subdued the earth when not a single
controlling impulse protects him from the fury of the
wind or the raging of the storm, from the effects of disease
or death, and from the usual accidents of matter ? Now,
subserviency to these things may be in the nature of
man, inherent and beyond control or removal. His weak-
ness is undoubtedly a part and parcel of himself, but it is
of that self I complain. You are not at issue with me in
these matters, I suppose? "
" I admit," replied I, slowly, and breathing with difficulty,
" that, as a race, man has signally failed to accomplish the
496 St. James's Magazine.
promises his early years gave. I admit that the redemption
of his soul as far as earth is concerned has been far from
perfect, but then you appear to forget that man does not
live, and never was intended to live, for this world only.
This is but a resting place, a time of trial and suffering, in
which he may learn some moral lessons, whose teaching
may fit him for a superior sphere in the life to come. And
yet, if man had but learnt the lesson his Redeemer strove
to teach him, he were not so base as you seem to think.
Human life is a grand and noble thing, and the accidents
to which it is liable detract nothing from its grandeur.
Death is a great blessing to the weary, and he must be very
fond of earth who would willingly live for ever."
" You mistake altogether," Dr. Delgardo answered ;
" humanity is sweet, we all know, and I never for one
moment would wish to see the principal accidents of
humanity done away with ; but while man lives he should
be something better and nobler than he now is, and his life
should not hang on a thread, or be held on such a precarious
tenure as he now holds it on. The body, the soul, the
being and the ends and aims of man should be very different
and very superior to what they now are. But the principal
thingf that man needs is regeneration, because his imperfec-
tions are inherited and he requires new blood in him, or,
rather, a new start from a life outside his own or that of his
race, to set him in a fair road to improvement. I first solved
these questions to my own satisfaction, and when I was
about thirty, decided on doing what I could to accomplish
tlieir changes. Man was to be improved, and by one of his
own race, but how ? "
" Indeed, I should like to know how you resolved that
question, my friend/1 1 demanded, half smiling at his conceitt
" I am going to tell you. God had not manifested any direct
interference with the human race for centuries, but he had
done something else — he had given to man certain faculties
for self-improvement, and to me special faculties for the
accomplishment of the ends I had in view. Should I have
been justified if I had not used them ? No, I was but a
servant at the best, and though what I was going to do had
no sanction from the. events of other times, though men had
Promethia. 497
always shrunk back with stricken hearts and horrent hail*
from the gaze of life, as from the gaze of death, I determined
to fear nothing, to face life as bravely as the noblest hero
can face death, and to wring from the stubborn womb of
Nature the mysteries of her wondrous creative power. Armed
with life I could make and vivify the first scions of that racfe
from which the mighty generations of the future should
spring, or, if I succeeded not in founding a race, the indivi-
duals I formed, and to whom I gave life, should mix with the
rest of the world's inhabitants, and import new vigour into
the worn out constitution of the present generations of the
earth. Once the conception was formed, I lost no time in
carrying it out."
He paused, apparently to see the effect his words had
produced. I was struck dumb. Could it be possible my
mind was awake, and I sitting by a blazing fire in a room
in the city of London ? Was it credible that this man before
me was a simple doctor, a professional man, and not some
creature of a fearful night-mare or Arabian tale ? Was he
human ? was he living, and speaking calmly of this fearful
thing that he proclaimed he had done, and with such
intentions ? To create a race of beings either to people the
world and drive out the inhabitants by force, or to teach the
new creation to engender with the old and make of men the
breed of their own vanity, the offspring of men-made men — / .**•'
a worse than devil's brood ! Yet he spoke calmly and coolly^ ',
without attaching any significance to the facts which terrilK
fied my imagination, discussing his work and object as un\'„
concernedly as a mechanician would discuss a new invention, \ ^
and the result it was to produce in the future. By a strong
effort I nerved myself to the task of disputing his words.
The whole thing must be a falsehood ; told to try and
humbug me into the belief that he was an extraordinary
being, and to persuade me that Promethia was not as I
believed her to be, some poor girl for whom he had formed an
unholy passion. He should not talk me out of my senses.
If his words had any foundation at all, I would know what
that foundation was, and see for myself the wonders he
boasted his knowledge had achieved. A6 I concentrated
my force, and screwed myself up to the proper point
498 St. James's Magazine.
of disputatious power, I felt enc6urag6d by an access of
strength which came upon me, and seemed to grow as I
commenced to talk, and proceeded to charge him with his
own faults. I was determined that he should not believe
in my being overcome by his audacious conduct, nor scared
by his bold defiance of every rational conception.
" Dr. Delgardo," said I, " this is a very pretty ro-
mance you are weaving, but you don't think you can make
me believe you are in earnest, do you ? What is it you say
you have done — made a man, eh ? Well, let me have a look at
him. What is he like ; and what are the points in which
you have improved him ?"
" You do not believe me?"
" Do I look like a man to believe such absurdity ? Come,
doctor, are you asleep, or am I dreaming ? What do you
mean me to take you for ? I tell you what I shall think of you ;
that you are either one of your own lunatics, or ought to
have a private keeper."
" Is not your observation," he returned, unruffled, " the
very result I deprecated when I began. I told you there
were things you knew nothing about, and branches of science
into which I had dipped which no other man had attempted,
and which were in themselves iso extraordinary that you
would not believe in them, and yet you promised to hear
me and judge me fairly. You have not kept your promise in
the making of that observation."
" But could anyone credit what you were going to say ?
Would anyone imagine you were going to tell such a story,
and expect me to believe it as Gospel ? Why, doctor, are
you aware that we are living in the nineteenth century and
not the middle ages ? What I see, I will believe; but unless
you show me the proofs I will be — I was going to say
hanged, but that is rude ; I will be something particularly
unpleasant if I consider it true, I can tell you."
11 And if you see, you will believe."
" Yes; that I promise you."
" Well, you have seen it, or rather her. I made Pro-
methia !"
(To be continued.)
V^"W Y0<
r-
A Happy Land.
" The richest, the most prosperous, the happiest country
in the world." — English Newspapers (yassim).
lAH ! Ugh ! this room ! the air is thick.
I have s&t in it all this live-long day,
Grinding my very soul away,
By polishing it on these whet-stone books:
Morals and Science, Latin and Greek,
Till the page before me almost looks
Like an army of goblins grinning in spite,
Here in the ghastly glimmering light
Of my reading-lamp; and the cobwebs stick.
Instead of fringing the musty shelf,
In my throat as limpets hang on a rock ;
While the scraggy, half-grown, spiritless flock
Of thoughts that I choose to call myself
Run helter-skelter through my brain
Like ants in their hill. Enough for to-night.
So! rest you there till I want you again.
How dark it is, though the stars are out.
Just like a man who has lost one creed
And found a better, but gropes about
Awhile in his new-found light, uncertain
Which way to turn, while the ghost of doubt,
A shadowy, half-seen, spectral curtain,
Hangs just before him, and every weed
He takes for a flower, until by degrees
His eyes grow used to his brand-new lantern,
And he finds at last that his spirit can turn
Which way he pleases without a fall ;
And the shapes of men, at first like treea,
More plain once more before his eyei^
35
500 St* James's Magazine.
So I feel my way ; but at last my road
As clear as in daylight before me lies ;
And the glimmer of starlight is sweeter than all
The garish glitter to lamps and gas.
I stand for a space in the open street,
And hesitate whether to turn my feet
Into the fields, to find the grass
Supple and soft beneath my tread,
Or to take a turn in the city instead,
And see how a few of the human herd,
Whom we call so often, but seldom mean it,
Our brothers — what irony lurks in the word —
Are treading a step of the ghostly measure
Which they deem life, with an unknown load
Of cares to help them follow the tune ;
While the ball-room floor is all rough and strewn
With dust and ashes instead of flowers;
And the music, in place of a Lydian air
Pianissimo played, is the devil's own fiddle,
And the master-player sits throned in the middle ;
This, I think, is a luring scene ; it
Will carry me far from the love-lit bowers
Of Paris and Helen. The city wins.
A few quick steps and I'm landed there,
Full in the midst ; and the fun begins.
A woman, pallid with want and care,
Crosses my path ; with the gloss of her hair,
That was once like the gold men die to gain,
Washed out in this sea of sin and pain ;
Sunken her cheeks and her lips tight-pressed
As though, if she dared to unclose them again,
A curse would spring ; and her only treasure,
Clasped in an agony tight to her breast,
An innocent baby — thank God, asleep ;
Like a blessing incarnate, though even this
Seemed thrown away on the woman's soul.
Close by a tavern-door she stands ;
I pause a moment to see who comes ;
A staggering footstep sounds ; it is hi<?jFitiz
A Happy Land. 30I
And the drunkard reels forth into the street,
Flushed with the grace of the flowing bowl,
And lips with the dregs thereof besmeared ;
With eyes like a cod-fish's, dull and bleared ;
But he sees his wife — once more ironic —
And pushes her from him with half-clenched hands
And a muttered curse. This is the whole
Of the tragedy as it appears to me.
My vein is equable, calm, Platonic,
And I carelessly breast the tide from the slums ;
They have made their own bed ; let them be.
A few steps farther, a hand is laid
On my arm ; I turn in surprise and see
A woman with clear-cut, graceful features,
Not painted and decked like the rest of her tribe,
With a flush on her cheek and a careless gibe
On her lips ; — though, perhaps, a trifle pale,
Yet a face you would turn and look on again
If it shone in the midst of the happy throng
At your cousin's wedding ; not fair and bright,
But pure to my eyes as an angel of light ;
And the saddest thing I saw that night.
The small hand trembles, as half afraid
Lest a curse or a blow resent the touch ;
And her eyelids fall as her eyes meet mine —
So young, so fair, so sweet, so frail,
A face I could hold as half divine ;
I could never dream there were any such
Treading the street of that sin-swamped city :
O, sister, who would not turn in pity
And seek to unravel the dreary tale
Of your fall to this ? Was your love too strong ?
Your trust too full ? and your faith too sure ?
O, God, hast thou eyes for thy human creatures,
That one who was fashioned so sweet and pure
Should be lost in the slough of this soul-defiling
And putrid deadness ? The foulest crime
That brands its mark on the brow of time,
The blasphemous curse, the obscene reviling
Of human fiends, is less bitter, less sad,
5©* 5*. James's Magazine.
Than this sorrowful face — that was once so glad.
But all in a. moment, ere I have space
To speak a word, a surging crowd
Wells forth from a side-street ; coarse and loud
The shouts ring forth ; and two — men, I suppose —
But women it may be — who cares ? who knows ? —
Cringing beneath a shower of blows
Are hurried into the open street ;
Scarcely a man may keep his feet,
And almost before I have quickly stept
Aside, the throng has past and swept
In its sudden course the woman away,
And past like a dream is the sorrowful face.
Lynch-law — the sovereign mob holds sway —
And this is its pleasure, to pay old scores
Without loss of time by calling the aid
Of the arm of justice.
This, seen from the shores,
Is the aspect of this undiscovered sea,
Undiscovered, as far as a place may be
Which all can talk of; but few, if any,
A voyage through all its breadth have made ;
For were he the bravest of mortal men, he
Might well pause awhile on the utter brink
Ere he cast himself fairly into the thick of it.
But my choice is made ; I will drain the dregs
Of this cup, whose foretaste is sharp and bitter ;
I will drink the draught, though my soul is sick of it,
Almost before it has touched my lips.
So, with something nearer a prayer than often
Sits on my tongue, down the first turning
I bend my steps. It would surely soften
The heart of a man who holds it his mission
To sing to his kind of the sparrow's twitter,
As brooding he sits on his brown mate's eggs,
Or to wander at will through the fields Elysian,
And holy seats of the quiet gods,
And weave in his songs the unstilled yearning
For the purer post, were he once to sink
His subjective self in this moral drain, d
A Happy Land. 5^3
And walk by my side for a hundred rods ;
At least, it would heighten the bliss when again,
In the flowery bye-ways his spirit drops
Into his dreams.
The place is swarming.
Men, coarse, half-clothed, with beetling brows,
And eyes deep-set, with a wicked craft
As their only light ; cut, scarred, and seamed i
Their rugged features gnarled like the boughs
Of a veteran oak ; and women who screamed
With unrighteous mirth and thought they laughed ;
Some bloated, red, with disordered hair,
And hideous curses, fierce and loud ;
And others — perhaps one here and there,
Whom one could separate from the crowd —
Pallid and pinched, with an eager stare,
At the stranger who dared to wander alone
Among such a crew. And, worse than all,
The children crowded the open street,
Dirty, uncared-for, under the feet
Of men and horses. The sight would appal
The veriest optimist, if he should turn
His steps that way. And the holes where they dwell,
These human vermin ; — if aught in hell
More loathsome can be, then the architect
Is the master-fiend in very truth ;
Low, filthy, scarcely fit for a pig,
Such holes as a rat would hardly dig
At the sorest pinch ; with tumble-down walls
And roofs that cannot at best protect
From the summer sun ; far less from the rain ;
Where men and women, in age and youth,
Live huddled together without respect
For sex or kindred ; — though separate stalls
What man would ever deny his horses ?
I peep, as I pass, through a broken pane
Of what once was a window ; a woman was lying
With scarcely a coverlet on the floor,
While the cold wind swept through the open door,
504 St. James's Magazine.
Not cool and fresh to the heated brows
But fetid as though from a charnel house ;
A babe lay beside her ; and both were dying.
I could see the death-like, chalk-white face,
The close-clenched teeth, and the gasping breath
Scarce forced through the lips. But not a yard off
Another woman was keeping her place,
Crouching over the ghost of a fire,
Careless even here in the presence of death
And busied about no labour of love ;
But filled with only a vain desire
To comfort herself by the chilly glow
Of the few pale embers, whose power of warming
Her withered body was scant enough.
The dose is sharp ; if it cured some few,
It would kill the rest. I never knew
Till to:night what a world of mist and gloom
Weltered and seethed a stone's-throw away
From my own poor roost. I have seen but little,
Yet more than enough ; and I haste to quit all,
With perhaps a glimmer of hope that this
Is not the end ; that I, too, one day,
When my soul is stronger, may turn again,
And gather together my straggling forces,
And a share in the good fight no longer miss ;
But casting my squeamishness aside
Bear a feeble hand in stemming the tide
Of this bubbling filth. But now I would fain
Be alone once more.
So I sought my room.
Which I loved as much as I loathed it before,
And hoped as I lifted the latch of the door
To dream awhile by myself; — but there
I found a wise philosopher,
Who said that in this fair land of ours
The harvest was reaped ; that a strong man's powers
Found nothing to work on ; and over the sea
Was the only vineyard for him and me.
Magic,
|N insight into the laws of Nature farther than is
generally understood, terminating in effects pro-
duced out of the ordinarily conceived notions of
the age, in former times was attributed to Magic. But
Magic means more than this, for by it wisdom is actually
implied that the common mind entirely sets aside ; that is,
wisdom from Beings of a higher or lower order or sphere ;
and so Magic has always been nursed or discarded according
to the disposition and the condition of the mental and
spiritual tendencies of the times.
Magic may be treated under three heads : — i, Low
Magic; 2, La Haute Magic; 3, Hermetic Philosophy.
1. Low Magic is especially considered in the four books
on Occult Philosophy, by Cornelius Agrippa. In fact,
therein the whole subject is entirely exhausted. Low Magic
includes amulets ; auguries ; auspices ; incantations, depen-
dant on the nature of the spirit invoked ; witchcraft,
dependant upon the aim of the exorciser ; the Black Art,
that is, sorcery, witchcraft, as above, and necromancy ; but
not astrology, as sometimes asserted, for astrology is
founded on inferential deduction. The charcoal line of
Dupotet is Low Magic, by symbolism or correspondence.
2. La Haute Magic is of a celestial nature ; it is that
Magic which has reference to communications with Beings
of a higher order. It comprehends Divinations ; results
proceeding from Mesmerism, including Clairvoyance; In-
cantations, as implied in the modern use of prayer; it is
contained in the Cabala, and is represented by the chalk
line of Dupotet, by symbolism or correspondence. Spirit-
ualism, a modern term, but of ancient practice, having been
well-known to the Egyptians, Indians, and Greeks, and
formed the secret teachings in their temples, is High or Low
506 St. James's Magazine.
Magic, according to the end in view. Witches may be
denominated spiritual media, and in that sense, witchcraft
can be included under the head of High Magic, although in
the" Middle Ages witchcraft was mostly considered as
productive of evil. High Magic is communication with
spirits belonging to the Heavens ; Low Magic is com-
munication with spirits belonging to the Earth.
3. Hermetic Philosophy is the flower of High Magic. It
is the highest possible spiritual Magic. La Haute Magic
is the vestibule to the temple of Hermetic Philosophy.
Divine Magic is performed by the immediate grace of the
Almighty, and depends on that spirit and power which
discovers itself in noble operations, such as prophecy,
miracles; such magicians were Moses, Joshua, the Prophets,
and the Apostles.
The Alchemists and Rosicrucians pursued this philosophy,
disguising their aims and aspirations from the vulgar mind
under such feints as searches after the Philosopher's Stone
and the Elixir Vitse, according to the popular acceptance
of the terms.
In a work, published by Lackington, Allen, and Co., 1815,
entitled "The Lives of Alchemystical Philosophers," there
appears a critical catalogue of books in occult chemistry,
and a selection of the most celebrated treatises on the
theoiy and practice of the Hermetic Art ; and this list will
be found to contain no fewer than 751 works on the subject,
written^during the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth
centuries. But one of the most remarkable books that has
ever been published in modern times is a work, entitled,
" A Suggestive Enquiry into the Hermetic Mystery, being
an Attempt towards the Recovery of the Ancient Experiment
of Nature," published by Trelawney Saunders, 1850.
We purpose to treat Magic briefly under the three heads
we have described, and to place the subject as clearly and
as correctly as possible before the reader, so that the
thoughtful mind may not only have food for further reflection,
but may be enabled to turn aside from those popular delu-
sions, which have so firm a grasp on the vulgar, concerning
this maligned art, and also possess himself of a true know-
ledge of what Magic really is.
Magic. 507
It must be borne in mind that the origin of all Magic is
the desire of man after spiritual power; and the practice of
Magic is the application of that power when obtained.
In the first place, then, let us give a short summary of
what is meant by Low Magic.
Amulets are objects worn as charms. They are presumed
to be preservatives from sickness and witcheries. The
origin is probably Arabic, from " Lamalet, what is sus-
pended/' The phylacteries of the Pharisees, as well as
being openly worn as badges of piety, were also regarded as
preservatives from evil spirits. Precious stones are fre-
quently worn as amulets; doubtless this arose from the
clairvoyant power attributed to the ancients by which they
discovered the occult virtue of the stones in reference to
the magnetic power they possessed over health. In the
year of our Lord 721, the wearing of amulets was solemnly
condemned by the Church. Amulets were condemned by
the Church probably because she was jealous of the wonders
supposed to be effected by them outside herself, for she was
not at all scandalised at any miracle worked under her own
auspices by means of relics, and these may really be regarded
as species of charms.
In the Middle Ages, amulets were much in repute ; and
coins attributed to St. Helena, the mother of Constantine,
were worn round the neck as especially efficacious against
epilepsy.
Auguries and Auspices. — The modes of divination em-
ployed by augurs were usually of five distinct classes. The
first related to the interpretation of celestial phenomena ;
the second to the noise and flight of birds ; the third to the
feeding of chickens ; the fourth to any unusual motion on the
part of a four-footed animal ; and the fifth to any trifling
occurrence not included in the previous four, such as
sneezing, stumbling, &c. The Auspices were held by the
chief magistrates of Rome, as well as by the augurs, who
entirely possessed the right of exercising the auguries,
although the methods used in divination appear to have
been similar. The power of taking the auspices in war,
however, was confined to the commander-in-chief, and even
though the victory might have been earned by a subordinate,
5oS St. James's Magazine.
the former was entitled to the triumph. The phrase, " under
the auspices of," implies what is meant.
Incantations are to be considered as Low Magic, so far
as they are of a lower or demoniacal nature. An interest-
ing volume, compiled by John Harland, F.S.A., and T. T.
Wilkinson, F.R.A.S., entitled, " Lancashire Folk-lore,"
under the headings " Charms and Spells," gives a detailed
description of those incantations and formulae which belong
properly to Low Magic, and a lengthened and critical account
of those which were used in Witchcraft, as considered under
Low Magic, and as practised in the Middle Ages, will be
found. Incantations were used usually in connection with
the concocting of drugs, and for the summoning of inferior
spirits. Witchcraft, as applied to exorcism, is inextricably
mixed up with incantations, for in summoning a spirit
from a lower or demoniacal sphere, incantations and
drugs of a disgusting nature were always used together.
The Witches' incantation in " Macbeth " illustrates to the
full how incantations were used with reference to Low
Magic.
Sorcery is divination by the supposed assistance of Evil
Spirits, but Necromancy, which was practised among the
Jews, Greeks, and Romans, is the attempt to summon the
dead, or make them appear, but not necessarily for evil
purposes. Hence it appears that Low Magic includes all
the arts and ceremonies used by man to obtain aid from
spirits for the furtherance of earthly schemes or advantages,
and with the exception of that benefit hoped for by the use of
amulets, by which good health was generally sought, and
the auguries and auspices, power for evil purposes was, in
most cases, the incentive. The spirits with which man is
said to have gained communication in Low Magic, were
those who took interest only in his earthly career ; and
usually the motive of the spirit in lending this help was not
so much for the benefit of the invoker as to serve its own
I purposes, in giving it again connection with the material ]}
' world. Thus, there has always been considered great dangerjf
' in meddling with Low Magic.
We now leave the bare and dreary plains of Low Magic,
a land unproductive of nought but weeds and rank herbs,
Magic. 509
and ascend to the fair fields of La Haute Magic, the bright
and celestial regions of spiritual life. Here we find all that
fancy or imagination dares to revel in, and here grow fruits
of the loveliest and most wonderful description. Compared
with the dark and treacherous country through which we
have just passed, the ever-changing scenery we are now
about to look upon, is as the broad sunlight of a summer's
noon to the cold, cloudy midnight of severe winter. In the
pursuit of Low Magic, nothing but dead leaves and ice-
bound impenetrability is found — an illuring machination of
demoniacal influences, which, unless the utmost precaution
be exercised, probably beckon on only to destroy. In La
Haute Magic we have all those mental and spiritual
philosophies from which the essence of the many systems of
moralities, that have raised man above the brute kingdom,
have been primarily derived.
The true and prime essential to La Haute Magic is
magnetic rapport with those powers which are presumed to
have a higher intelligence than is found in Nature, and
through which, the Deity is more fully manifest. This power
acquired, all that is found in La Haute Magic becomes
apparent, and is developed in perfect order and with the
interdependence of a fine mosaic. But although there
exists this concord in the subject when treated as a whole,
yet by no means can it be said that writers on this topic
assert that perfect magnetic rapport with Nature and the
higher powers is frequently gained by man. It is said,
indeed, to be rarely acquired at all, except in various
degrees ; and hence the experiences and practices related in
works on La Haute Magic are oftentimes very disconnected.^
The language used by the Mystics and Rosicrucians is so
veiled in allegory and so determinedly cabalistic that many
who, had they but simple treatises on the subject, would
admire and wonder at its beauties, throw away the works,
and designate them freaks of fancy run wild.
In the Middle Ages, the Mystics and Rosicrucians were
men of the highest mental culture ; and their learning, dis-
guised in many an odd garb, when extricated from the
labyrinths they designedly, for protection's sake, fenced
around it, will be found to contain the rudiments of the most
510 St. James's Magazine.
divine wisdom earth enjoys. These much abused classes of
philosophers were, time out of date, the original searchers
into those hidden properties of Nature which modern science,
in its slow dogmatic way, is beginning to recognise.
In considering the following, it must be well understood
that the key to La Haute Magie is sympathy, and that it
bears out the axiom, " like attracts like/'
Divination, otherwise than what is termed natural divi-
nation, namely, artificial divination, belongs to Low Magic,
and is comprehended in the auguries and auspicies. In
natural divination we find La Haute Magie employed for its
lowest purpose, that is, for the discerning of future events by
means of a sort of inspiration or divine afflatus ; and here,
although the end in view was earthly and of low magical
tendency, the means employed was said to be divine, and is
therefore to be classed as belonging to La Haute Magie.
Natural divination may be considered as the border land
between High and Low Magic. The diviner stands on the
verge of the ocean of higher life, and uses those means for
the good of the community, or himself, which, when had in
proper recourse, should only be used for the advancement of
the knowledge of the Deity and Him revealed. Under this
heading we may mention the Sibylline oracles.
Incantations when considered as prayers addressed to
higher powers are Haute Magie, as, by means of rapport, the
beseecher seeks to gain what is best for his spiritual advance-
ment; the result appertaining to the bequest being in
accordance with the sympathy existing between the sup-
plicant and the power invoked.
And now to trace La Haute Magie from the tendril shoot ;
to watch it as it grows and developes, until at last we find
it has been the shadow-giving tree, beneath whose broad
foliage the wise men of all nations, from the earliest ages,
have rested and been refreshed. We have said that the key
to La Haute Magie is sympathy. By sympathy is meant
the amalgamation of like with like. But each must to all
eternity preserve his own individuality; therefore, when
sympathy occurs, the stronger rules the lesser. This
acknowledged, and we have a ready solution for
magnetic power, and need only development to
Magie. 311
make it applicable to all the higher usages which
are imputed to it. The establishment of this sympathy
being possible to exist between man and man, led to the
supposition that it might also exist between man and a
higher or lower order of Being, and when it was seen that a
Divine Inspiration was vouchsafed by the Almighty to the
chosen few, there arose an aspiration on the part of others,
not thus favoured, to make themselves worthy to be recipients
also of this Divine Inspiration ; and this was the cause of La
Haute Magic.
So La Haute Magic treats of the condition of mind and
body necessary for the proper reception of inspiration ; and
its higher state, that is, the Hermetic state, was the con-
dition strived for, in order to be fit for the reception of
Divine knowledge. The clairvoyant condition, resulting
from a highly magnetic constitution, gave rise to the idea
that man in this state was more easily put in sympathy with
higher beings, and hence, by synthetical advance, more likely
to become possessed of the Divine knowledge. It was found
that the knowledge derived was in exact accordance with
the spiritual condition of the clairvoyant, that is to say,
sympathy again asserted itself; and this leads us easily into
what is necessary for the reception of pure spiritual know-
ledge, in other words, what is
3. The Hermetic Philosophy ?
We have now a clear conception of what gave rise to
the Hermetic Philosophy. Man, conscious of the commu-
nications between God and his chosen prophets, and long-
ing for heavenly wisdom, took thought how to render
himself a fitting vessel for the reception of His glorious
inspiration ; and being a non-recipient of the Divine afflatus,
sought to reconcile himself to the Deity, and render himself
a proper subject for His bounty. The law of sympathy
having been ascertained, it was sought by this means to
lead up to that condition which was considered essential to
the reception of Divine knowledge, and, passing through La
Haute Magic, from which many rules and courses for
spiritual discipline were obtained, the aspirant entered the
Hermetic ground, and became what is to be understood by
the denomination, Hermetic Philosopher^gtizedbyC
512 St. James's Magazine.
The aim, then, of the Hermetic Philosopher is divine
wisdom. What, it may be asked, is divine wisdom ? In
the wisdom of Solomon will be found the following: —
" Wherefore I prayed and understanding was given me.
I called upon God and the spirit of wisdom came to me.
For wisdom, which is the worker of all things, taught me,
for in hor is an understanding spirit, holy, one only,
manifold, subtil, lively, clear, undefiled, plain, not subject
to hurt, loving the thing that is good, quick, which cannot be
letted, ready to do good, kind to man, steadfast, sure, free
from care, having all power, overseeing all things, and
going through all understanding, pure and most subtil
spirits. She is the breath of the power of God, and
a pure influence flowing from the glory of the Almighty,
therefore can no undefiled thing fall in unto her, for she is
the brightness of the everlasting light, the unspotted mirror
of the power of God and the image of His goodness, and
being but one she can do all things, and remaining in herself
she maketh all things new, and in all ages entering into
holy souls she maketh them friends of God and prophets."
This was the wisdom sought for. Now we will put forth
briefly the pith of most works on Hermetic Philosophy with
regard to what constituted the essential conditions of mind
for the Hermetic Man.
The Man must be as adamant to resist any temptations to
evil that the world may offer, yet be as ductile as gold to
submit to spiritual guidance. He must be as stern as
justice in doing that which is right, yet withal tender and
loving. He must have a supreme will to do or not to do
that which is required of him. He must live regardless of
the world's opinion, heeding alone that which his conscience
sanctions as right in the sight of God. He must love all
mankind for the good which is in them, be it ever so little,
yet he must be a strict observer of the evil element in human^
nature that he be not imposed upon^ His duty is to exter-
minate evil or ignorance, and to cultivate good. He must
do good for the love of good alone, without hope of any
earthly reward. He must live ever conscious that the eye
of spirit watches his every thought and action, and weighs
them in the balance. He must value his moments as grains
Magic. 513
of gold to be used profitably, not wasted. He must be
prayerful, for prayer is the power that opens the gates of
heaven — that lifts the veil that separates the material from
the spiritual.
Magic in its lower and degraded state has been productive
of some of the grossest superstitions the mind of man can
stoop to ; in its loftier flights it has led to the teaching of
wisdom incomparable. The Hermetic Philosophers, during
the Middle Ages, found their greatest enemy in the Church,
outside whose teachings none else was recognised, all else
punishable. The utmost care that was necessary for con-
cealing their practices from the vulgar, in whose hand
nothing but superstition and malversation would be likely to
result, as well, doubtless, as the cruel punishment to which
the Hermetic Philosophers would subject themselves, caused
them to veil their teachings in that alchemical allegory
which gave rise to the general misunderstanding concerning
their aim.
Low Magic, as practised by the Egyptians, Greeks, and
Romans, was just so much of Magic as could be allowed to
go out of the Temples, either for gaining the applause of,
or command over, the vulgar; and how this little was abused
and applied by the cunning to the furthering of their own
vicious and sordid ends by working on the superstition of
the ignorant, such practices as have been explained in the
beginning of the essay will show. It was only natural that
the mal-application of what they endeavoured to use for the
best of purposes should prevent men, whose aspirations /^H
may be learned from what has been already said on thet'^ ^
subject, from divulging to the multitude any more of their\^
knowledge than ordinary observation led them to acquire of \ '^
the workings of the Infinite. Rather than blame this mis- " C
represented body we ought to take into account the circum-
stances that compelled that concealment, which, taken
literally, is attributed to madness and folly, and be thankful
for the freedom of the times in which we live. It would certainly
be more becoming and kinder patiently to seek to elucidate
what is meant by the allegorical disguise adopted by reputed
alchemists, although the result may cross modern material
thought, and, having extracted what good there is in the
514 St. James's Magazine.
Hermetic teachings, apply it to our own benefit, rather
than, without one effort in its behalf, to hold the whole up
for scorn. Nothing is easier than to scorn. Perhaps, seeing
how few there are who succeed compared with the many
that fail, there is little to be wondered at that many subjects
other than this, because they do not suit the lazy popular*
mind — for which laziness so many excuses are made that
its superficial self quite exculpates itself — should not only
be given the go-bye and pointed at with the finger of scorn,
but, more than that, be branded with the worst epithets
ignorance can hurl at them. Let the thoughtful read and
digest.
The Grey Shawl,
From the French.
Liz, how light a thing will speak
Of you, and with a start,
Will drive the colour from my cheek,
The life-blood to my heart,
How often, passing through the street,
Your image I recall,
If I but only chance to meet,
Dear Liz, a plain grey shawl.
Then how that far November night
Comes rushing on my thought,
That night when first my passing sight
Your passing figure caught ;
Your glance, your smile, your blush, love, when
I turned, I see them all,
And follow, as I followed then,
Dear Liz, your neat grey shawl.
Tlie Grey SImwI. 515
Oh, doubts and fears! Oh, hopes, how sweet!
Again for you I wait,
And dread to-night we shall not meet
If, love, you seem too late.
Too late ? Oh, doubts and fears how wrong !
My heart forgets them all,
As, down the street there trips along,
Dear Liz, your neat grey shawl.
O, girl, to live again the past !
To love those swift, sweet hours,
Too swift to fly, too sweet to last,
When love and hope were ours.
What would I give, one kiss, one warnC
Fond whisper to recall, ' ^
To clasp once more the living form
That wore that dear grey shawl.
O, wish, how vain ! no more those eyes
By mine, Liz, shall be seen ;
Between our hearts an ocean lies,
A world, love, lies between.
Ah, Liz, how dark the future seems,
In vain my heart may call,
No more these eyes, except in dreams,
Shall see that dear grey shawl.
W. C. Bennett.
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?
Only a Music-Master.
By FANNY AIKIN-KORTRIGHT.
AUTHOR OF " ANNE SHERWOOD," " HB THAT OVBRCOMBTH," BTC-
CHAPTER XXVII.
A WEDDING.
JHILE I, the idle chronicler, write these records of
years gone by, truly not long since, yet seeming
dim and distant in the past, a voice is speaking to
me of the fading away of all living things. It is
midnight, and the solemn bell tolls the hour from
the tower of St. Bertin's ruined abbey, in the old grass-
grown town of St. Omer. The voice of time, strong and
deep and solemn, comes out of the very heart of the ruin
whereon grow grass and moss and green lichens, and while
it speaks in the quiet old city, I am to chronicle a wedding
in grim England. But late I was tracing the history of an
English graveyard, while in my ears rang the merry peals of
music and voices and laughter in Imperial Paris. So full of
contrast is life. The poor story-teller has need of some
strength to keep the thread of his little tale, when his loom
is oft set up and set down again, sometimes where the real
story was enacted, sometimes in the far off gay city, some-
times in the solemn monastic town, wherein a saint's legend
would seem a more fitting theme for his pen than that of
human passions and sins and sorrows.
Lord Selmore's pride was hurt, though his affection could
not be called wounded, by the desertion of his intended
bride. She lived a life of at least outward quiet in her
Only a Music-Master. 517
father's house. She was in a sort of disgrace ; alone, unless
for the old lady-housekeeper, who was to watch over her
lest some poor, daring lover should approach, and she should
consummate her folly by an imprudent match.
But Ellen was sick of lovers and flirting and idle wooing.
She walked softly and helped the poor, and planted flowers
and watered them privately on a poor stranger's grave, and
fled from all the world — chiefly from Miss Ormsby. The
pious care she lavished on Valerio's resting-place each night,
some sacrilegious hand destroyed early each morning ; the
wreaths were scattered, the rich flowers torn and shredded
leaf from leaf. There was someone jealous of poor Ellen's
sad pleasure. Who could it be ? She knew not ; but she
dreaded the unseen and unknown enemy of her poor little
schemes for showing the disembodied spirit, the tenderness
she would not have dared to show the living man.
Lord Selmore came into his own county. A strong im-
pulse lead him there. He wandered one day into the old
churchyard ; busy tongues had told him that Miss Grantley
tended the stranger's grave. He heard that she was
altered ; he had a curiosity to see her. He had not loved
her, but she had once belonged to him in a manner ; he had
believed her affections all devoted to him, and it is always
darkness to lose love. The coldest ^hearted, most selfish of
men feels a void when the devotion on which he has been
accustomed to rely dies, or is proved a poor counterfeit.
Lord Selmore was neither cold-hearted, nor selfish, nor
vain ; but his heart was sad within him, and he felt doubly
lonely. He wished to see Ellen once more, so he entered
the churchyard and encountered — not the woman he sought,
but Miss Ormsby.
When he saw her, he started, and his great heart beat in
his bosom ; beat hard against his side as it never could have
been stirred by Ellen.
" You here, Miss Ormsby ! " he involuntarily exclaimed.
" What is there in common between you and a graveyard ? '*
" My lord," said Horatia, in a voice so humble and
gentle that he could scarcely recognize it, " I think I am
soon to die ; I am the last of my race, and I came here to
~ -.-- r Digitized by VjVJUVTV
fix on a spot to hold the tomb of the last of the Ormsbys ! "
518 St. James's Magazine.
Lofd Selmore did not make answer. The scene, the
unwonted manner and tone of Horatia moved him so that
he could not speak, — but he drew nearer and looked into
her beautiful eyes ; they were full of tears ! Was it sorrow
for another, was it pity for herself?
At last he said, " May I lead you home ? "
"Oh, if you will," she smiled, and even laughed a little.
4 My lord, you will despise me ; you know I was strong and
brave once, but I have been ill, and my nerves are sadly
shaken. I came here, as I told you, to choose my own
grave, but I have lingered here — don't laugh at me — I have
lingered here because I dare not pass that dark corner
yonder, where the yew tree waves."
44 Ah, that is where the poor foreigner was buried ; he
made a swan-like end, dying in music."
44 Yes, he lies buried there ? We cannot choose how we
shall die — death is a fearful thing. Do you fear to die, Lord
Selmore?"
44 Truly, I have not thought much of death, at least, not
as a wise man should. May I ? "
He drew her arm through his as he spoke, and led her
away, but Horatia walked with her head over her shoulder,
as if watching something under the old yew tree.
Was it fancy, or did she draw closer to him, and did her
light touch on his arm gradually become a tight clasp,
while her breath grew very short. Selmore turned and
looked on the fair face beside him, now more touching from
the impress that illness, and perhaps a little feminine
cowardice, had left there.
44 Horatia," he spoke very gently, and they had passed
the confines of the graveyard.
She did not look angry or displeased, but sorrowful and
subdued. They had reached the grounds of the old Manor-
house, and he passed on with her.
44 Horatia, have you seen Miss Grantley ? "
44 Yes ! No ! Yes — that is to say, we seldom meet."
44 She acted dishonourably towards me. Don't you think
a woman should use honor as well as a man ? "
44 Assuredly."
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Only a Music-Masicr. 519
" it was a miserable mistake altogether," said Lord
Selmore.
" It was all my fault. If I can do anything to repair the
evil I have wrought — "
" If you can, Horatia ! you know how I have loved you,
how I love you still."
"Alas! my lord, you are too good!" Horatia spoke
sincerely.
" Will you be my wife."
She started.
" My lord ! you know I do not love you."
" I do, but—"
" I do not love you ; but I esteem and respect you beyond
all the world. I believe your wife would be happy."
" Happy, if my tenderest cares could make her so."
"Ah! happiness does not grow up like a summer flower,"
said Horatia ; " but she would be sheltered from the world's
storms, honored and respected."
" You have not answered me, Horatia."
" Hear first what I have to say, my lord, and then, if you
will — speak to my father. I fear I should not do honor to
your choice ; once I might ; now I am a poor, weak, nervous
invalid, frequently a prey to frightful fits of depression, even
to horrible fancies. Could you bear with all this ? "
" My tenderness should soothe them all to rest."
" There is no madness in our family."
" I know there is not. Why need you assure me of that?"
" Frankly, my lord, because my mind is weakened; because
I so often feel beset by horrible fancies that I fear the loss
of my reason, even if it is not already shaken. I should
like you to know all that — I should like to tell you "
" Tell me nothing, my beloved, that can agitate or
distress you. I will make your life one long golden holiday
— you shall forget all these painful feelings."
"Never! never!" said Horatia, "you are too good to
me — would that I had known you long, long ago, for your
real worth."
" As it is, Horatia, dearest ? "
" I am but the spectre of my former self. All that
remains of my old nature is my pride. 9Tt shall never rebel
520 St. James's Magazine.
against you, my lord, but it shall still serve me as defensive
armour against an impertinent world."
" I will speak to Mr. Ormsby this very night."
" Do," said Horatia, faintly smiling, " and you will make
him very happy. My lord, I owe you the truth and you
shall have it. My father will accept your proposals with
alacrity, nay, with gratitude, because you are — the best
match in the county."
" Never mind, provided your father's daughter accepts me
for better reasons."
" Ah ! my lord, she accepts you to find what she has
never had — a noble friend, a protector in whom she may
blindly and unreservedly trust."
A few weeks later Lord and Lady Selmore turned from
the altar of their parish church and passed through a throng
of spectators, treading as they went on clusters of roses and
lilies which the school children had strewn in their path.
The bells struck up a merry peal and the echoes of their
glad songs floated over the turf-clad ground of Luigi
Valerio.
Had the bride turned her head to the solemn yew tree as
she left the churchyard ? Probably not, but her thoughts
were there, and when the bridegroom addressed a few tender
words to her she looked up in his face in bewildered wonder
that it was as unlike the face she expected to meet. A
shudder passed over her frame, but her husband reassured
her by a gentle look, and the happy pair set forth to wander
for an unlimited time among the olive groves of Spain.
Mr. Ormsby walked more erectly than he had done for
years, and believed he had found in his daughter's marriage
an elixir for his own life.
, On the wedding night the strange form so closely resem-
bling Luig^s once more sat upon his grave, solemn as the
raised dead and silent as the eternal stars above him* Did
the spectre dream of the past or the future ?
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Only a Music-Master. 52 1
CHAPTER XXVIII.
ITHAMA TO HENRY TEMPLE.
" I will try, indeed; I will try to be more reasonable. I know
I am wrong and unjust to doubt you, and I mean, indeed I
fully mean, never to do it again. I will not ask you one ques-
tion, and will wait patiently, if I can, for the solving of this
mystery. Yet, alas ! it does not seem for a day ! but as a
dark, abiding shadow that must hang over our future lives
for ever, at least for the little for ever of this world ! I have
said nothing to your mother; I have asked her nothing;
but her dear face looks sad and grave with thought, and
sometimes we spend an hour together without exchanging
ten words. She sits in the armchair in the last window.
You know how neat and orderly her little parlour is ; not
one thing out of its place, but so nicely arranged that the
perfect order makes nothing stiff. Beside her is a little
table, with her work-box, her Bible and the ' The Imita-
tion of Christ ' ; perhaps a few flowers, too, that I have
brought in from our garden. You can fancy the picture,
crowned by her beautiful, placid face, framed in the widow's
cap which we know she will always wear. One of her hands
is on the Bible, the other is on the head of a young woman
sitting on a stool at her feet. The young woman is no
beauty, but I don't think she looks stupid, or heartless, so
we will not call her quite ugly, though she is content to be
so in all eyes but one pair ! Sometimes we break our lonely
silence, and then it is, ' Ah, I wonder what he is doing now ;
where he is; our boy! Who will take care of his comfort,
darn his socks, and see that his linen is aired ? laundresses
are so careless. Ithama, dear, look at the date of this letter.
The 12th ! You don't say it is the 12th ! and the 20th is
here, and not one word since ! I am afraid he's ill. If he
only would be persuaded to wear flannels! ' Just then the
postman knocks at the door ; we both start a little, fear
mingling with our expectation ; and, then, perhaps, instead
of a letter from our wanderer, comes a circular from a new
522 St. James's Magazine.
millinery establishment, setting before our imaginations
a gorgeous display of the latest Paris fashions in bonnets,
caps, head-dresses, &c. ' They little know to whom they
send it,' says your mother, ' nor how little custom they will
ever get from me ! ' But don't think I always spend my
hour with your mother in ecstatic contemplation of her face,
or in eager listening for the postman. No, we are very
wise; we work together, I doing the tiresome little bits for
her, which I then no longer find tiresome. But I often do
look up from my sewing to watch her countenance. How-
very fair it is ! I am sure that a noble soul grows more
beautiful itself, and makes the face through which it shines
more and more beautiful year by year. The fairness that is
but of form or colour may pass away, but if it springs from
the inner self it must be increasing in light, it must be
immortal ! What sorrows she must have known ! yet how
nobly she has borne them. I wonder whether we could
bear so much; I wonder whether we could bear it as well.
I scarcely think we could, Henry! But we may never be
so tried ; surely we never can be, for we believe in each
other fully, don't we? There is no lingering distrust in
either heart. * Perfect love casteth out fear.' I have fully
resolved to forget the beautiful lady you admired so much,
yet, despite all, though my waking hours are reasonable
enough, I dream of her again and again, and always as in
someway connected with your destiny. I wake up in
terror, and have a few minutes of dread that amounts to
horror; then I look at some of your written words, and
laugh away my own superstition. Matters go on at home
much as usual. My dear father is not very well, but toils
constantly for all of us. I am still the mother of the family,
and hope to continue so ; I should not like to see another in
my own mother's place, and I am afraid the best of good
women is seldom fairly judged as a step-mother. You have
asked nothing about the rector, but I know you will want
to hear, so I must tell you. He preaches as good sermons
as ever, and eats as good a supper; why, indeed, should he
not ? You told me once something about checking his
impertinent pretensions; but, to be just, I don't think them
at all impertinent. He does not know that I am engaged;
Only a Music-Master. 523
he is accepted and favoured by my father; he is a gentleman
and a scholar, upright and honourable, and sincere, as
benevolent as a tender-hearted woman, and he generously
offers me the devotion of his life and affections without for
a moment weighing my little value and my utter want of
fortune. Can I call this generous self-forgetfulness imper-
tinence? No, truly, I cannot. And do you know, Henry,
that I owe a large, a very large debt of gratitude to him, a
debt which, alas! I can never repay, and I will not, because
the poor rector is not of my own age, and because he, per-
force, carries a great ' bay-window ' about with him. I will
not return his generosity by insult or ridicule. No woman
with a heart can be other than grateful for an honest man's
affection. It is not a gift to despise, even when we cannot
take it into our hearts and keep it warm there. You see
I deal quite frankly with you, and, if you are just and gene-
rous, you will in a cool moment acknowledge that I am
right in this matter, the more especially as you know that
you can never have a rival in my affections. Farewell.
Write soon."
CHAPTER XXr*^ M/ YOR*'
IMPROVEMENTS IN THE OLD MANOR-HOUSE.
Improvements on an immense scale were going on at the
old manor-house. Mr. Ormsby had been ordered to
Cheltenham ; nothing loth, he resigned the home of his
fathers to his son-in-law, desiring him to select a new bailiff
and to order the estate precisely as if his own, as it would,
of course, eventually be. Mr. Ormsby was too great an
invalid to discuss any business matters, — would Lord Sel-
more settle everything? it would be such a relief to his
mind if he would. Lord Selmore knew the state of the
case pretty well ; he knew, also, that the property was going
to destruction, so he determined to stretch forth his hand
straightway, and while sparing Horatia's feelings by averting
the ruin of her ancestral home, to protect the interests of
524 St. James's Magazine.
the second of his unborn sons, to whose lot, of course, the
old manor-house must fall. Lord Selmore and his bride
were paying their first visit since their marriage to her
birthplace. On Horatia's part it was unwillingly paid, but
she could not well refuse to see the noble works there being
carried on by her generous husband. Her health had improved
during their wanderings, but she was still subject to fits of
depression, and was occasionally seized by such alarming
attacks of the nerves that her indulgent husband watched
over her with the tenderest care.
" It is strange to be in these rooms again," said Horatia.
" It must be pleasant to you to see them, dearest. Nothing
can be like home."
" Oh, yes, very pleasant," said Horatia, wearily.
11 You are tired, darling; sit down here a few minutes."
They stood in the old haunted rooms.
"There I oh, no! no!" cried Horatia, shuddering — he
was leading her to the very couch on which she had sat
with Valerio the night before his death.
" My beloved, what is it ? "
" Oh, nothing; nothing but my wild fancy again. Take
me from here ! Take me away, or 1 shall die ! "
" Let no one see me ! " she added, in an under-voice, and
looking round.
He took her in his arms and bore her away, looking with
fond anxiety into her face, — his heart full of misgivings that
her reason was going to abandon her.
The cause ! where lay the cause ! Aversion to him ? Had
she been forced into marrying him? No! it was her own
free act. Had she married him from interest? did she
now shrink from her self-made sacrifice? No! assuredly.
She was too lavishly generous to value money, too proud to
have sold herself for fortune.
What was, then, the frightful secret pressing on her
brain ? What could it be but embryo madness, and ere long
it might burst forth into frenzy ! No ! no ! his tenderness
should soothe away the fiend, — even now, as he carried her
away, she turned her eyes on him and tried to smile.
" Do you love me, Horatia," he exclaimed, impetuously.
" My lord, I am very grateful."
Only a Music-Master. 525
" Ah, it is not that I want."
" What would you ? "
" Your heart, Horatia."
" Oh, don't speak thus to me."
" Tell me, at least, that no living man stands between you
and me."
44 1 swear it to you. I swear it to you by the dead."
" The dead ! Why do you talk of them always ? "
" Why ! oh ! because I was so near — so very near death,
last year, you know. I thought I had but a few hours to live,
and the image grew familiar to me."
44 But not beautiful, Horatia ? "
" No, no ! Not beautiful — ghastly, my lord, horrible I "
" My lord again ! "
"What shall I say?"
44 Call me by my name, then I may sometimes fancy you
love me."
" Herbert ! my honoured Herbert ! I should love you if I
dared—"
" What do you mean ? "
" If you were less noble — I — less unworthy—"
44 I would hear no tongue so slander my wife."
44 But if some one came and told you I was unworthy — "
" That some one would rue his foul slander till his death*
day."
44 Herbert, tell me that you have committed some sins,
some follies, like other men ; that you have been hard, selfish,
cruel, vicious, it will bring you down nearer to me."
14 Nearer! Nay Horatia, I should not dare to look in my
wife's eyes again after such a confession. No, I have led a
quiet life compared with most men; perhaps I have had
less temptation than others — at least, I boast of no merit
for abstemiousness. It may be that my temperament is
colder, I know not ; I only know that the face of vice has
always been revolting to me. My sin has been idolatry of
you."
"Of me ! Oh what a whited sepulchre is your idol !"
*4 1 beseech you, spare my hearing those fanciful accusa-
tions, Horatia. With what can you reproach yourself?
526 St. James's Magazine.
Whose name is written in life's book more unstained than
yours ? "
" Oh, I know what the world says/' said Horatia,
dejectedly, " but I shudder when I look into my own heart ;
it is like a black dungeon, noisome and dark — dark, frightful
to myself "
" You must not dwell on these frightful fancies."
"Fancies?"
" Yes ; what, what is wanting to your nature, my beloved ?
Nothing but a healthier flow of the blood ; were your pulse
once in a free, sound state, your mind would resume its old,
healthy tone. We must have more advice ; Dr. "
" Oh, no, my lord. My disease is beyond mortal cure; it
affects heart and brain equally — hopelessly, too : shall I tell
you how it began ? "
" Tell me anything that relieves your feelings."
They were walking out in the grounds, they came near
the church. "Not here; not here," repeated Horatia,
growing pale. " My disease began early, my lord. It was
believing nothing ! "
44 What can you mean ?"
" Believing nothing," repeated Horatia. " A man may
serve as his own god, perhaps, I don't know, but a wonian, a
woman must have a religion "
"Good heavens, Horatia! I am sure you were taught
what was right, your father sent you to church even as a
child ; in after years he took you there, you always joined
in . You don't mean to say your religion is shaken ? "
" No, my lord, for, alas, I never had any."
"Horatia!"
" No, never. I thought I had, but I know now there is a
something high and holy ; a something that consists not in
cold creeds and muttered prayers, and hearing sermons ; a
something that is so powerful, so divine, that if God gives
it to one of His creatures it keeps him walking through life
like a sainted spirit, and can lift a fallen creature up from
the depths of misery — and even of crime. Oh, my lord, I
thought — I thought you could teach me this unknown
something ! "
Lord Selmore looked in Hoiatia's face with tender com-
Only a Music-Master. 527
passion, but with a puzzled air. " Horatia, my mother
lived and died what is called a religious woman, and she
taught me."
" What did she teach ? " cried Horatia, with eager interest.
" She taught me to do my duty, to attend church, which I
have always done, never allowing business or pleasure to
interfere with my duty, and — "
" But," said Horatia, disappointedly, " did she tell you
you were a great sinner."
" I was not one."
" Oh, no, of course not ; but I am : I suppose you and I
want a different sort of religion. Let us talk of other things."
Lord Selmore thought that some unwholesome reading
had fallen in his wife's way, or that she had in some times
past stumbled on what he mentally called a Methodist, a
kind of creature which he believed to consist chiefly of a
lamentable voice, a long black coat and straight hair. He
mused for a moment what to say, for, though the best of
good men, and gifted, and clear-headed enough on other
matters, his theological notions were obscure in the extreme.
Presently he renewed the conversation by assuring Horatia
that " one of her pure and blameless life need not use the
language of contrition — very suitable, no doubt, to great
offenders against God and man, &c."
Just as he uttered these words rather loudly, for he was
speaking with great energy, a ragged beggar, who seemed
emaciated with disease, approached them. A little child,
equally forlorn in appearance, dragged on her weary hand.
The beggar was young and had been handsome ; she had
fine dark eyes. These she fixed on Horatia's face with a
something that might be called a bold stare. Strange was
the contrast between the rich silken attire of the Countess
and the tatters of the mendicant ; but the latter was not
abashed, though she well knew in whose presence she stood.
Not a word she spoke, but her eyes looked straight into
the eyes of the lady, and she stretched out her hand more
with the gesture of imperative demand than of supplica-
tion. There was a strange quivering in Horatia's lips; her
watchful husband saw it, and supposing she was nervously
affected by the beggar's appearance on the grounds (for she
528 St, James's Magazine.
looked very like a gipsy), he put a piece of coin in the
woman's hand, and told her to pass on,
" When my lady has given her gift," said the woman,
sturdily,
Horatia mechanically put her hand in her pocket.
" No," said Lord Selmore; "I have relieved her suffi-
ciently."
" But her ladyship must give me something," she re-
peated, with pertinacity.
" She will give you nothing. Be gone, or I will have you
taken up for trespass."
" No ; her ladyship will never have me taken up," said
the woman, laughing confidently.
"Yes, I must give her something," repeated Horatio,
hoarsely, her eyes all the while fixed.
M Of course," said the beggar ; " for my lady remembers
she was Miss Ormsby and I was — Bessie Sparks."
" Take me from here, take me from here !" repeated Lady
Selmore.
The next night they left for London ; yet, ere they did
so, Horatia had shudderingly seen the fac-simile of her
dead lover walk with measured pace along the terrace of
the old manor house. Had she dared, Horatia would have
prayed that never again in life she might hear the night-
wind rushing through the old trees that had sheltered her
childhood.
CHAPTER XXX.
HORATIA AND ELLEN RETURN TO THE WORK.
Horatia's second season in London ! Oh, what a changed
being since last she had walked through its varied crowds,
the envy of many, the admiration of more. She had
acquired some, very much, of her old command over herself,
and Lord Selmore was happy in the belief that the fearful
issue he had apprehended for her was warded off, perhaps
Only a Music-Master, 529
even averted by his tender care. How proud he was of her,
of her beauty, her grace, her intellect ; how immeasurably
she rose above other women in his estimation when they
stood beside her ! The beautiful Lady Selmore was the
fashion ; her old adorers gathered round her eagerly. Calm
and unruffled Lord Selmore looked on. At a glance he saw
that his wife's eyes had never looked with favour on one of
the flatterers of fashion, nor even on one of the men whose
merits of mind or person might better have deserved her
regard — to all alike she wore a demeanour of cold, quiet
dignity, which quickly dispersed all illusions as to the
possibility of nearer approach, or intimacy. Horatia was
ever at her husband's side, without any demonstration of
fondness or affection, it is true, but with such a seeming
reliance on his judgment, with such entire acquiescence in
his will, that many lookers on decided that Lord Selmore
had had the rare good fortune to be chosen for his own
intrinsic value rather than for the glitter of his coronet
and gold. It was a lengthened and a very crowded season ;
the debates in the House were of unusual interest, and
Parliament sat on late. Lady Selmore was always present
when her husband spoke, and always listened with animation
and respect, if not with enthusiasm ; in private life she was
submissive to his slightest will, and, for her, wonderfully
gentle. Her various fancies were lulled to rest ; she looked
to him in all things as her pattern, guide, and friend.
Horatia was unrecognisable !
Had he at last conquered ? Had he won the treasure
which he had so long coveted ? He almost thought he had,
but he did not dare to say, " Do you love me, Horatia?"
He was a brave man, but he had not courage to hear once
more, " My lord, I am grateful !"
Horatia seemed interested in all his doings, and if some-
times a fit of melancholy abstraction seized her, she would
rouse herself instantly at his least word, and engage with
alacrity in any object he pointed out for her pursuit. She
sometimes even called him " Herbert." How complacently
he dwelt on that trifling circumstance ! Oh, how easy it is
to deceive us when our own fond hopes help the illusion !
A great crowd in a great house, a regal banquet, and
53° "S/. James's Magazine,
then beauty and flowers and lights and music, and sweet
words and looks and whispers, and graceful dances and
fairy-like dresses, and all that looks bright on the surface
and is genuine to many eyes ; and underneath the broad,
flashing river of beauty, bearing all these fair things on its
surface, ran the dark, deep stream, bearing the bad spirits —
envy, hatred, malice, cunning, dishonesty, and the other reptile
brood ! It was very like an evening not very long ago, but
that seemed far back, dark with distance — an evening when
Horatia Ormsby had walked up a suite of rooms very like
those so brilliantly lit to-night, leaning on her father's arm.
At the opposite end of the room they first entered, Lord
Selmore had stood, leaning over his then affianced bride,
Ellen Grantley — now Ellen Grantley sat unnoticed beside
her stUl managing mother, and a crowd fell back on either
side as Horatia walked up the room as Lord Selmore's
wife, leaning on his arm. This woman was seeking re-
pentance for a grave fault in her past life, seeking it even
with secret tears, but the prirtie sins of her strong nature
rose up within her like a legion the moment she saw Ellen
Grantley, and a flash of triumph escaped her eyes as they
met those of her former friend ; a bow passed between
them — what more could pass ?
Ellen Grantley had returned to the world was the
" on dit." She had been in disgrace for some time ; her
parents hoped that severity had cured her of all folly and
romance. She was quiet and submissive; time had softened
her passionate grief for the death of Valerio ; her composure
passed for a wish to retrieve past follies. Sir Philip and
Lady Grantley were now parading their daughter once more
through a London season, just as Sir Philip's groom was
putting his master's horse through its paces at Tattersall's
for the same purpose. The result was different, for the
horse found several bidders and a purchaser — the marriage-
able young lady neither.
She was amiable and accomplished, but wanted the chief
charm — fortune; her extraordinary escapade in breaking
off her marriage with Lord Selmore was still remembered.
It might have been forgiven had she been an heiress — nay,
might have passed for a very spirited action — but plain,
Only a Music-Master. 531
downright, ungilt errors are ugly things that cleave to the
memories of conscientious men.
Lord Selmore looked on Ellen Grantley's face ; he bowed
to her respectfully, and inwardly congratulated himself that
he had secured the hand of Miss Ormsby, not of the woman
who had jilted him for the music-master, Luigi Valerio !
CHAPTER XXXI.
lotty's penitence.
None are all evil. There were moments when Lotty felt
weary of the heartless round of vanity and wickedness she led,
moments when she longed, as all like her must at times, for
something better. But, one afternoon's sauntering through
the gay shops of Regent Street, — one half-hour's visit to
Rundel and Bridges put all better aspirations out of her head.
She had a sort of philosophy of her own which ran thus : — " Its
no use to wish for impossibilities, to undo the past is an
impossibility, so — it is no use to wish to undo the past."
Two or three times she had been on the point of retiring
into the country, but a glittering brooch, or the promise of
some such bauble, stopped her, and she sighed on arriving at
the conclusion that she could not live without shining things.
Once she had gone the length, half in earnest, of addressing
a letter to a benevolent nobleman, who presided over a
movement made for the better educated persons of her class,
expressing her penitence, and anxious desire to retrieve the
past. The letter was prettily worded and took in even her-
self when she read it over. It brought about a meeting
between herself and the benevolent nobleman, who really
was a good man in his way, but it was a very weak way —
and — alas! alas! the conversion proved after all on the
wrong side, and Lotty went on flaunting in feathers and
jewels and laces, with many smiles on her face, and fewer
and fewer twinges in the small remnant of conscience left
to her. Poor Lotty! and, alas, for Lotty's poor silly
533 St. James's Magazine.
victims. Men with courage to march up to a cannon's
mouth if need be, with strength and will to seize a mad
bull by the horns, perchance to master him, but too silly,
too weak, too cowardly to seize by the horns and struggle
with and master or slay the vile " bfite " in their own natures,
and letting that run riot to their own dismal ruin.
Lotty despised most of the men who came about her.
What woman does not despise weakness, even when she
profits by it, to extract a fresh earring, or necklace, or
bracelet, or ring? and she sometimes speculated mentally
on how this one, or that one would wind up his career. To
say she pitied any of them would be going too far. One
man only had any influence over her, partly because of
his great physical beauty, partly because of his high, noble
nature, partly, too, because he was the one link connecting
her memory with days when she had been what she could
never hope to be again, what she would not be willing to be
if she could, yet the thing still for which she felt a vague
regret, undefinable to* herself. The former companions of
her girlish days, when she had led the blind old grandfather
to church ! She did not like to think of the village church,
and the grass-grown graves, and the solemn yews shading
them; nor of the old, white-haired grandfather kneeling
reverently near where the aged clergyman's tremulous voice
led the prayers that his feeble tones took up and followed.
But Lotty did like to think of the beautiful youth that
had walked beside her and the old man to church, — she
liked to see him, too, — and that often. She would pretend
more contrition than it was in her nature to feel, to draw
him to her, and when he came she would put off the hardi-
hood and bold face habitual to her, and even some of her
rich raiment, as she knew he loved simplicity. At last
Lotty began to be proud of herself for her partiality to a
man who could give her neither money, nor jewels, nor opera-
boxes, nor pleasure-trips, but who brought her a serious
face and a lecture and earnest words, about things that only
bored her, yet she listened, because she liked the voice.
Did the youthful preacher grow proud of himself and his
austere virtue? I know not. I only know that in time he
looked a little less severely upon Lotty, in time his stern lips
Only a Music-Master. 533
relaxed a little into something that was almost a smile. He
had grand work before him in life though so few his years,
and he had a grave sense of honour and that old-fashioned
thing called virtue, which men who don't even sneer at it,
feel ashamed of, as if it were an effeminate weakness. But,
— well, a hero is born but once a century into the world, a
true hero, strong, and brave as strong, and sometimes when
this young man went forth from Lotty's door, he felt uncom-
fortable, dissatisfied, and — but he persevered in going to
see her sometimes, because he felt it his duty to convert her
to virtue! but again and again he came away flushed and
feverish and wretched.
CHAPTER XXXII.
HENRY TEMPLE TO ITHAMA.
" My Beloved Ithama. — I want to see you. I must see
you. I have a feverish longing for the sight of your face, as
a sick, thirsty man has for water. Yet I am not worthy to
see you, not worthy to lift up my eyes to your innocent eyes.
What shall I say to you ? how acknowledge that —
" Well, Ithama, I will say I was lifted up, and thought
myself better than other men, incapable of falling into their
coarse sins ; but I am no better than my fellows. If I
have not fallen as low as some, it is not from my own virtue
and resolution. I have been, it seems, like a bitter jest; I
have been trying to convert a sinner, and have had to fly
like a coward from the task, lest I should become worse
myself than the penitent I would have made. Ithama, I am
sick at heart ; in losing my own self-respect I feel as if I had
lost everything. But you will pity and forgive me, I know
you will. I have some occupation which I may pursue in
my own little lodging, in fact, I have some literary work ; I
am trying to give all my mind to this, but it is very difficult,
very difficult when one is troubled with self-reproach. I have
learnt one thing, however, that a man needs no genius to
534 Sf. James's Magazine.
become a tolerably successful author ; if he is something of a
scholar, if he has read books and men, and has the
habit of composition, mingled with a fair understanding
of business, and a little luck to back him, he may work his
way in literature with respectability and credit ; in fact, he
may, if he is wise in his generation, enter the house and sit
down at the dinner-table, while the timid genius knocks
hesitatingly at the back door. I have no talent properly
speaking. I can create nothing original in writing, but I
can go on doggedly with the work assigned me, and can
make out a living. If you were with me I — but you will
answer, I know you will, by one word, ' Duty' — you feel it a
duty to devote yourself to your self-imposed task of being a
mother to your helpless brothers and sisters until — Heaven
knows till when ? Sometimes I have dreamed of all I
might do, of the exertions I might make if you were at my
side ; but I know self is uppermost in all these visions. I
forget the troubles and perplexities, even the privations to
which I might expose you. I forget that I am unworthy of
you in every sense, forget that a dark and hideous secret
exists which claims more than half my life. Yet, Ithama,
if you were at my side, I should not have had to begin my
letter by the confession of my errors and follies. So you
think my fate in some degree linked with that of the beauty
I described to you — not as you think; were she the only
woman in creation, I should shudder at the sight of her
eyes ; she would repel me for ever. I will, I must see you,
Ithama, — you and my mother, if only for a few hours. I
am like a man that has been in a dungeon for years — a dark
and lonesome dungeon, and who longs madly to see the sun
and sky and green grass. Don't be surprised if you see me.
Then I will, in full confidence that you will hear me with
indulgence, tell you all about myself, every secret of my
heart, whose disclosure does not involve the betrayal of a
trust reposed in me. I know that all you say of the rector
is perfectly true, and that I am unjust as ungenerous ; but
jealousy is mad and blind, it has suspicious eyes and a
narrow vision, which distorts all objects that meet its gaze.
I am not such a fool as to believe you love him,@omk
tempted to be false to me, but such is the perversity of a
/*
Only a Music-Master. '535
man's nature, that even when conscious that he has grave
errors of his own, he cannot endure the thought that
another should receive, even accidentally, the smile he
claims as his peculiar right. In a cool moment I can, of
course, philosophically, even, I may say, in justice admit,
that he, or any other, has just as much right to love you, or
to pretend to your favour as I ; but when it comes to the
point I am unreasonably irritated at the mere idea that you
sit in the same ro6m with, or listen to, this man ; and the
thought that you attend his Church, and Sunday after
Sunday fix your eyes on his face while he is drawling forth
his cold, bad imitation of eloquence — this thought distracts
me.
" But I know I am running on to folly, so farewell my
beloved. I shall be in on Sunday night. We will
meet at the church gates after service. I will see you
home, your good father will thank me on the doorstep for
my civility, close the door in my face, and allow me to
catch a glimpse of the supper-table prepared for the
reception of the spiritual pastor. Don't think me wilfully
bent on deriding the clergy, I like some among them, and I
have a reverence for all sincere religious faith. I have ever
held that a man without religion has but arrived at half his
mental stature, and is an imperfect being. Would that my
practice equalled my theory, that my religious principles
were as strong as my religious feelings ; but there is a wide
gulf between them. I take the tenor's part in the church
at every Sunday, and sing with all my heart the
glorious anthems of the Church, but the heart's teachings
don't guide me aright, and for one moment of my life I
have to blush and veil my face. Forgive me, Ithama, for I
love you. I love you more and more though I have come
very near to sinning against you." — H.T.
<£fRCAN:
^— — Diqitizfid^yrVjOOQl
536 St. James's Magazine.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A NEW SPECULATION.
Sir Philip and Lady Grantley and the maiden aunt were
in close consultation. Once more poor Ellen's fortunes were
the subject of anxious discussion. So much done and so
little return ; nay, no return at all. Houses hired in town,
balls, dinners, carriages, dresses, a fearful accumulation of
debts, which no retirement to the Continent could ever
make up for, and the result. Well, the result was very
mortifying; in fact, Sir Philip and Lady Grantley felt uncom-
monly like a poor old woman returning on foot from a far-off
market, with a heavy basket on her arm, containing numerous
pounds of butter and dozens of eggs, which she had hoped
to sell advantageously, and now has to carry back a weary,
weary load. Poor old market woman, poor father and
mother and maiden aunt. They have carried back their
wares from the London Market, wares for which no man
has bid, even to haggle about the price.
They are at home in the country ; their house is called
The Priorj\ The show rooms are rather handsomely
furnished, but the others have a cold, scantily furnished
look, and when the rector calls for a subscription, Sir Philip
looks to his wife to be strengthened, and buttons up his
pockets. Now to such an appeal Mr. Ormsby would have
. immediately stretched out his hand, from feeling as much
as from pride, had he embarrassed himself for weeks or
months. Once more, report says, that Miss Grantley is
tending the poor stranger's grave, but less tearfully, for time,
the consoler, has come by and touched her gently ; but surely
Sir Philip and Lady Grantley know nothing of the little dead
romance, for no one has dared to tell her ladyship, and Sir
Philip is really nothing, nothing at all, only Lady G's
husband — nobody cares to tell him anything. The anxious
mother has rAoderated her views for her daughter, and Sir
Philip has been desired to moderate his, which, of course,
he immediately does. There was a Mr. Templeton who had
lately come into the neighbourhood ; he had no particular
Only a Music-Master. 537
descent, was somewhere about forty-two, plain in person
and manner, and possessed an income of something like
fifteen hundred a-year.
" We must ask Mr. Templeton to dinner, Sir Philip," said
Lady Grantley, with the air of a person who has formed a
decision upon a great and important subject.
" By all means, if you wish it," said Sir Philip.
" My wishes have nothing to do with it. If I had been
consulted, instead of "
" Well, my dear, pray do just as you please."
" I shall do nothing of the kind."
Had Sir Philip dared he would have said, " Leave it
alone, then." As it was he whispered that sentence to his
own soul confidentially, and then plunged into the news-
paper.
" Sir Philip."
" My dear?"
" Pray do leave off that eternal paper. Do you always
mean to leave the burden of all the family affairs on my
shoulders? "
" Certainly not, my love; what do you wish? "
" I wish nothing at all. You know I have always sacri-
ficed my own wishes from the day I brought you my fortune."
" Six thousand pounds," said Sir Philip, in a low tone,
meant only for himself.
" Six thousand three hundred, Sir Philip," said Lady
Grantley, sharply, " and glad you were to get it, though youy- ^jj
may pretend to despise it now ! " / 4
"My dear!" \ff
" Just like you, Sir Philip! coarse insinuations." \ •;.
" You were saying, my dear — " A *
" I was suggesting, Sir Philip, that we had better ask
Mr. Templeton to dinner."
" Just so, my love."
" Will you give me your attention ? "
" Certainly."
" We need not make it very expensive."
" No, my dear."
" Sir Philip, will you lay down that paper ? "
"Certainly. I only wanted— "
538 St. James's Magazine.
" You only want your own selfish pursuits ; do pray
attend sometimes to your family concerns. Ellen is a great
fool."
" Just so, my dear."
"Aren't you ashamed, Sir Philip! another father might
be proud of his child."
" Well, my dear, so I am ; but you were saying — "
" Mr. Templeton is better than nothing."
" Of course, yes, to fill up a corner; rather coarse in
appearance, but respectable — very — "
" Sir Philip, your brains are — well, you remind me of the
man whose skull was so thick that no one could get an idea
into it."
"Well, my love."
" I was going to remark that as Ellen has been such a
simpleton as to throw away her prospects, we must be con-
tented to take what we can get for her."
" Have you any prospect of an establishment for her?"
asked Sir Philip.
" Prospect of fiddlestick ! no ! but I say Mr. Templeton
is better than nothing."
"For Ellen?"
"Yes, for Ellen."
"My dear!"
"Well, Sir Philip?"
" But, my dear, I really don't think she'd like him."
" Nor I either ; but what has her liking to do with it ?"
" Oh, nothing, my love, of course, but "
11 Well, Sir Philip?"
" Lord Selmore had fortune, rank, a handsome person,
and amiable manners, and as she didn't like him "
" Don't talk of it — it nearly distracts me to think of it!
What ingratitude ! What blind wickedness ! Surely she
has learnt a lesson by this time ? "
" Only, my love, Templeton is such an ugly fellow."
" Nonsense."
. "And then she won't like his age, she called Lord
Selmore old."
" Sir Philip, you are determined to shorten my days."
"My dear!" but, perhaps, a momentary temptation ,
Digitized by GOOQ IC
Only a Music-Master. 539
crossed the poor man's mind, which ran thus, " Oh, that I
could shorten them ! "
" Why will you thwart me in everything — positively
everything ? "
" My dear, shall we ask the Elvertons to meet Mr.
Templeton ? "
" Certainly not, that would be pretty, with their tribe of
daughters; that would be playing into Mrs. Elverton's
hands completely."
" But whom can we ask, then ? "
" You leave that to me, and give your mind to your own
concerns. If I am left unthwarted to manage this affair, I
have no doubt I can bring it to a favourable issue. I never
find myself mistaken in my calculations."
" What about the Selmore case, then ? " inwardly groaned
Sir Philip; but, of course, he did not proceed to open
rebellion on the subject.
" I am never deceived," continued Lady Grantley, " never.
I know that sentimental curate was at the bottom of Ellen's
folly and wickedness. I saw them exchanging looks often
enough ; it was a lucky day when he went as a missionary
to Otaheite."
" Did it never strike you, my dear, that the music-master
— the poor young man that died — had something to do
with it?"
" Now, pray Sir Philip, don't talk nonsense — no one but a
woman can judge of such things. Matters are bad enough,
but I do think a daughter of mine would know better than
to look at a music-master."
" Of course, my dear. When shall you ask Mr. Templeton
to dinner ? "
" Leave me to manage, Sir Philip, and pray do — do keep
your muddy boots off that rug. Where's Ellen ? "
" Coming in from the churchyard."
"Well, she'll have something else to think of presently
than mooning after the shadow of the curate."
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540 St. James's Magazine.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE LAOCOON.
Lord Selmore and his wife were in Italy, and a whole
year had passed since our last chapter, a year which had
brought changes. Horatia's health had decidedly improved ;
she had gained, if not cheerfulness, at least composure.
She was in all externals an admirable wife, and though her
indulgent husband's tenderness had failed to bring forth a
corresponding return of affection, he had nothing of which
a reasonable man had any right to complain. Perhaps he
might have felt disappointment, for he was a man of the
keenest sensibility; but he had begun to think that his wife's
peculiarities must be attributed to an habitually cold tem-
perament, and, if cold to him, at least he knew she was
faithful.
They had wandered over Italy, which was new ground,
at least to Horatia; they had admired all that was admirable,
and gazed on the beautiful objects that, perhaps, produce
enthusiasm only in the happy. At Rome they stood before
the Laocoon for a long time in silence.
" The eternal agony there displayed is too painful to be
admirable," said Lord Selmore.
" I like it," said Horatia, quickly; " and the idea of one
who has strength to go on struggling is grand ; you feel that
he will do it for ever." She paused a moment, then resumed :
" But do you know what those entertwining serpents make
me think of?"
" Something very loathsome, Horatia."
"Truly yes; the evil conscience, the 'damned guilty
deeds ' that Shakespeare speaks of as pressing on sinners'
minds ; one feels that if Laocoon looses one single coil of the
serpent, another will bind itself more closely around him."
" Let us thank God that ' our withers are unwrung,' " said
Lord Selmore ; " a man who had forfeited his honour, or a
woman who had been frail, would smart under your sugges-
tions, my Horatia."
Only a Music-Master. 541
" See how complete is his agony," continued Horatia;
" there is no part of his frame, were all the rest concealed,
that would not indicate intense suffering. How surely it
typifies the horrors of a dark conscience^' '
" There is a gentleman close behind iis," whispered Lord
Selmore; " he will glean some curious ideas from our
conversation.,,
Horatia frowned, and turned round with a haughty look.
Twilight had stolen round them, and the figure near looked
shadowy and unsubstantial. He did not seem to notice
them ; his glance passed beyond them to the object of their
mutual contemplation — the eternal agony of the Laocoon.
The stranger's face was young and fair, his hat was off, and
his hair was shaken back from his broad, white forehead.
His eye was serious even to sadness, and his brows sternly
knit.
Horatia caught but one glimpse of his face; a deadly
paleness spread over her own, and she fell lifeless on the
ground ere her husband could catch her in his arms.
" The lady was right, sir," said the stranger, pointing to
the Laocoon; " this looks very like the working of an evil
conscience ! What think you ? "
Without waiting for a reply, he was gone.
To be continued.
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A Flower Story,
By ROGER QUIDDAM.
PRETTY bee! will you not come down and
visit me?" exclaimed a plaintive voice from an
open dust-biil in a gloomy back yard.
The bee, who had lost his way in the fog and smoke of
the great city, looked down with surprise on hearing the
plaintive voice, and perceived some flowers lying upon a
heap of cinders, amid a collection of squeezed lemons,
orange peel, and similar rubbish.
He gave a buzz of pleasure at the sight, and at once
checked his weary flight to say a word of greeting to his old
friends. But when he drew closer, he saw to his grief that
the flowers were withered and dead, with the exception of
one poor faded rose, whose plaintive voice had reached his
ear.
" Poor thing ! " said he, sadly, " whatever has brought you
to this sad condition ? "
The rose shook her head, and said in a tearful voice —
" Alas ! my story is a long one, and I fear it would tire you
if I told it."
" By no means ! " the bee hastened to reply ; — " Pray tell
me your trouble, — that is, if you think the telling of it will
ease your heart," as he spoke the bee settled himself upon
a withered spray close to the poor rose, and gave her a look
of sorrowful attention.
The rose began — " I came of a good stock, my dear Mr.
Bee, as you know; and the sweetness and beauty of my
family were renowned far and wide."
" I am aware of that, my dear lady," assented the bee,
cheerfully. " I have heard some of my friends mention the
A Flower Story. 543
fact, and speak in high terms of all your relations. But I
interrupt you. Pray proceed."
The poor rose, touched by this tribute to her former
respectability, gave a little sob and continued — " I remem-
ber very well when I first felt the warm rays of the sun
stealing into my bosom, and I gradually unfolded myself to
look upon the beautiful world.
" I found that I was in a large garden filled with gay
flowers of all colours, and enclosed by high, moss-grown
walls, within which were rows of tall, wide-spreading trees.
Everything was so bright and beautiful about the flowers —
so grand and stately about the trees — so ancient and
venerable about the moss-grown walls and the handsome
red-brick house behind me — so musical and sweet about the
song of the birds and even the notes of the hoarse old rooks,
that I thought nothing could well be more lovely. My heart
was filled with joy, which I expressed to my brothers and
sisters near me.
"By-and-by I heard footsteps coming down the gravel
walk, and soon there appeared an old lady holding a little
girl by the hand. The child carried a pretty basket in her
hand, and the old lady bore a sharp, glistening knife. I
wondered what they were going to do.
" They stopped before the bush to which I was attached,
and the little girl cried out — 'Oh, nurse dear! there is
another beautiful rose blown this morning. Shall we not
have that one for my basket, — it is so fresh and sweet ? '
" ' Just as you please, my child,' replied the old lady, ' you
know you have permission to take what you please for the
poor things in the hospital.'
" ' Very well, nurse ; then I will take that one first.'
" The next moment the old lady took me gently in her
hand, and before I knew what she was about to do, passed
her knife swiftly through my lower joints and separated me
from my family.
" ' O, how sweet it smells ! ' cried the little girl, as she
held me close to her face and tasted my fragrant breath.
* Will not the poor little sick children that mamma told me
about be pleased with this ? '
" ' No doubt of it,' said the old lady, gravely. ' But w«
544 St. James's Magazine.
must be quick, my dear, for it will not do to keep the carrier
waiting, and it will soon be his time for calling.'
" So the old lady and her pretty little companion culled a
flower here and a flower there — all the sweetest and richest
they could find — till they had filled the basket.
" I found myself presently surrounded by a group of most
charming companions, and the young lady, after arranging
us in the most comfortable manner in the basket, yet in such
a way, also, as to show off our beauties to the best advantage,
bore us proudly off to the old red-brick house. There another
lady met us at the top of the wide white steps, who was not
so old as the first lady, but much more stately and beautiful.
She looked approvingly at us as we lay cosily in our basket,
and she said : —
" * Your gift, Ethel, will make the poor little things quite
gay-'
"At that moment a man approached, and announced
respectfully that the carrier was ready to start. We were,
therefore, immediately handed over to him, with strict orders
to take the greatest possible care of us, and to instruct the
carrier to the same effect. A few moments afterwards, we
were placed on top of a pile of boxes and baskets, with a
neatly written label attached to us, beneath the canvas
awning of the carrier's cart, which was standing just without
the garden wall. The man mounted to his place in front,
smacked his whip gently in the air over the horses' heads,
and the cart moved rapidly forward.
" I need not tell you, my good Mr. Bee, who have travelled
so much yourself, of all the sights and sounds that filled my
companions and me with wonder and delight as we passed
along, for doubtless they ar£ very familiar to you.
The bee nodded his head, as much as to say — " You are
right. Pray proceed," and the rose continued : —
" Well, after a long, but very pleasant journey, we at length
stopped before a large building, with a grand flight of steps
in front, and we were handed out to the porter, who received
us with marks of very great respect and care. Presently
we were taken to a gloomy room, smelling very strongly of
what I afterwards learned was physic. Here a grave
gentleman came in, who after inspecting us and admiring
A Flower Story. 545
our beauties, ordered us to be taken up to the children's
ward, to Mrs. Goodman.
" His order was soon obeyed, and our next remove was to
a large room with great windows reaching nearly to the
ground. Between every two windows was a little white-
curtained bed. In nearly every bed was a little white-faced
child, looking very sad and weary.
" Two or three of the beds had screens round them. The
room was very quiet, save for a plaintive moan here and
there, as some little sufferer turned uneasily on its pillow.
" Mrs. Goodman received us with a kind smile. Taking us
gently in her hand, she said ' Oh ! thank you. These will
brighten little Perkins up, wonderfully. That child is
always talking of flowers and trees. He must have been in
the country at some time or other before he came here, I
should think.'
"The lady said this to another lady in black, who stood
near and smiled at us. A moment after we were taken
behind the screen close at hand, and placed upon the table.
" Oh ! the poor little white wee face, that lay still and
grave upon the pillow. Oh ! the little sunken wistful eyes
that opened as the nurse's garments rustled by the bedside.
Oh ! the look of wonder and joy that lightened in the little
brown eyes as they beheld our glowing colours.
" ' Flowers ! flowers ! flowers ! ' he uttered, in a thrilling
whisper. ' O, beautiful flowers.' Then, with hands clasped
together, he turned upon his side and lay and gazed upon us.
"When they came to give him drink, or to smooth his
pillow, he moaned uneasily if they came between his gaze
and us. When late, very late in the night, he closed his
eyes for awhile, his last look was upon us. When he
opened them very, very early in the morning, they sought
us out immediately.
" Poor little fellow ! For two days we stood by his
bedside, cheering him with our presence, and then there
seemed to come a change. His face grew smaller and
whiter ; his eyes more sunken, and yet more bright. Nurse
and the doctor were beside him the greater part of the day,
but as evening came on they left him for awhile with us
alone.
546 St, James's Magazine.
"There seemed to come a deep silence upon the room
when the dying child suddenly opened his eyes and stretched
out his hand to us, saying : ' O, pretty flowers ! ' and then
with a strange, lost look upon his little face, he sank low
down upon his pillow and closed his eyes.
" The nurse came in almost immediately after, and
stepped quietly to the bed. She started as she looked upon
the child, and then, with a look of pity in her eyes, she
drew the sheet over the little face and left it.
"At this moment I myself became very faint, and bowed
my head listlessly on my stalk, and felt very sad. The
nurse observing our sad condition, took us away with her
from the close room, and after giving us a fresh supply of
cool, clear water, which relieved us all very much, she set us
out upon the window sill to breathe the fresh air.
" But, alas ! my revived spirits did not keep up very long.
Soon I felt an increasing faintness stealing over me, and I
was greatly alarmed to see that my companions were even
worse than I.
" Next morning, a man in a green baize apron entered the
room where we were, and after regarding us attentively for
a moment or two, said contemptuously ' You're no more
good. You're only fit for the dust-bin.'
" So saying, he took us roughly from our resting place,
carried us down the staircase, and having brought us here,
abandoned us to our fate. My companions are all withered
and dead, and I am nearly approaching the same sad state.
The poor rose ceased, and waited for an expression of
sympathy from her friend, the bee.
" My poor friend," said he, " I pity you greatly. All I
can do, however, is to beg you to be resigned. It certainly
appears to me that they who have enjoyed your sweetness
and beauty, should have treated you more tenderly in your
decay. But there is one consolation, my dear friend, which
ought to sustain you in your sad condition, and that is the
thought of how innocent and blameless your life has been,
and how much pleasure you have been able to give to
others."
" True," said the rose, with a faint sigh, " there is, indeed,
much comfort in that."
A Flower Story. 547
" Can I do anything for you ? " enquired the bee, gently,
after a short pause.
Receiving no reply to this question, he looked down upon
his friend, and saw that the poor rose was dead. He heaved
a sigh of tender regret for her pitiful fate ; but a burst of
golden sunshine coming immediately after, to pierce the fog
and smoke around him, he took advantage of the opportunity,
and, opening his wings, he flew away.
A Flower Song.
By ROGER QUIDDAM.
R35j3|N the bridge of Italia's city,
iKS 1 Domed o'er with its beautiful sky,
■Saul I have listened with pleasure and pity
To the flower-child's musical cry —
" Come buy,
Ere the fair blossoms wither and die ! "
Pretty flow'rs from the fields far away,
All radiant with sunshine and dew, —
Each sweet-smelling blossom of May,
Meet ofFring dear lady for you !
Come buy ! Come buy !
Ere they wither and die
Far away from the fields where they grew !
38
548 St. James's Magazine.
They were gathered at break of the morn,
Ere sunrise yet coloured the skies ;
From valley and dell they were torn
To gladden your beautiful eyes.
Come buy of my store,
O lady, before
Each fair blossom withers and dies !
Here's a rose that is fit to compare
With the glow of your exquisite cheek :
O, buy it to twine in your hair,
Nor lovelier ornament seek !
O buy, lady dear !
Or with sorrow, I fear,
It will drop in my hand as I speak !
Here are lilies all stately and white ;
Here are violets purple and blue ;
All colours to give you delight ;
O choose ! they were gathered for you !
Come buy ! Come buy !
In my basket they lie,
All fresh with the sunshine and dew !
On the bridge of Italia's city,
So sang I beneath the blue sky,
As I listened with pleasure and pity
To the flower-child's musical cry —
" Come buy !
Ere the fair blossoms wither and die ! "
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_ — _i — _ -— .. — . — j
Latter-day Verse.
|HE final court of appeal to which all human work
must come for judgment, the bar of the ripened
experience and mature deliberation of posterity,
has, in numberless cases, strangely reversed the decisions
of the original court of contemporary opinion. To the petty
Greek chief, at whose barbaric board a blind old minstrel
chanted the song of the first ripple of that mighty Western
Wave which is destined to overwhelm the Eastern shores,
it would have seemed monstrous to dream for a moment
that the days would come when his own exploits should be
forgotten, and those of his greater forefathers remembered
only because the name and work of Homer had become a
heritage for all time. The wits who crowded round the
chair of Addison and exchanged passages of arms with Dick
Steele, would have laughed to scorn the prophet who should
have foretold the relative positions of the Elizabethans
and Augustans in the estimate of the nineteenth century.
What right children can have to upset the cherished
doctrines of their fathers does not appear; but the limits
of paternal, or grandfatherly, authority in matters of
opinion are more closely and strictly defined than seems to
be dreamed of in the philosophy of some abstract thinkers.
A curious subject for speculation naturally presents itself.
What will be the verdict of posterity upon the men who
are now working in our midst in the many divers fields of
intellectual effort ? What position will be held by the latter
half of the present century, whose characteristics are
marked with sufficient distinctness to justify us in making it
a subject of special and separate study, in the scale of the
records of the world's progress ? To many it may seem
mere idle pains to attempt, until the close of the year of
550 St. James's Magazine.
fatal omen and cabalistic digits, 1881, to forecast, however
vaguely, the possible verdict of our grandchildren upon the
work of the greatest among our contemporaries. But
though the advent of the era fixed by the venerable
prophetess may deprive the present lords of creation of the
uses of this, the best of all possible worlds, there is yet
time to place on record a few considerations which may
have the good fortune to escape the universal wreck and
instruct the new generation which shall be created from the
dust or evolved from some lucky Noachian worm, destined to
be the progenitor of a higher order of mortals, in some of the
aspects of a certain phase of English intellectual work
during what will, perhaps, be brought to light and known
to future antiquarians as the Shiptonian epoch.
What, then, to select a congenial topic, will, or might, be
the opinion of posterity upon the poetry of what Mr.
Stedman calls the Victorian Age ? One striking sign of the
times, upon which alone we wish at present to comment, is
the prevailing tendency of the poets of the present day to
leave the actual living world, in which each man of us has
his allotted place, if he only had the luck to find it, and to
turn for inspiration to the times over which antiquity has
thrown its faint, fair glamour ; to emancipate themselves as
far as possible from the bonds of busy reality, and to
emerge into the glorious liberty of bygone ages. Everyday
life, with, as Carlyle would say, its superabundance of
beaverish or vulpine activity, seems to choke the poet's
soul with the smoke of its Wolverhamptons, to deafen him
with the ceaseless vibration of its Manchester spinneries, to
crush him beneath the wheels of its express trains. " More
light ! more light ! " is the despairing cry of all men who
have souls above, or without, the dull realities of the
present; light, liberty, and, more than all, a little rest
before we perish. The man has not yet arisen, unless we
consent to accept Walt Whif man at the estimate of himself
and his worshippers, who is strong enough to grapple
boldly and bravely with the deep problem of actual
existence, and to draw forth the hidden poetry from the
prosy realism of to-day. Instead, we have men who miss
being classed among the greatest by a hair's-breadth, almost
Latter-day Verse. 551
by an accident, merely through this seeming inability to
enter fully into the spirit of the age. If we call to mind the
products of our own time, the works of the men whose
genius gives light to the present intellectual world, what is
the appearance presented to us ? Mr. Tennyson gives us,
as the outcome of his best years, the harvest of his richest
seed-time, the legendary tales of a race whose only con-
nection with ourselves is, that they once trod the same spot
of earth. Mr. Browning deals with times less mythical, but
with which we have scarcely a deeper sympathy, and
assumes, as his special province, the latter days of medie-
valism, in their artistic and social aspects. Mr. Swinburne
is at his highest in singing the sublime heroism of Meleager,
the divine self-abnegation of Clithonia, the human passion
of Iseult. Mr. Rossetti wanders even further afield; and
the world is enriched with " Eden Bower," " Troy Town,"
and "Sister Helen;" while Mr. Morris, content to call
himself " the idle singer of an empty day," rises to his
supreme effort in telling anew the Iliad of the North.
True, this is not all. As a sample of what our singers can
do in dealing with phases of the life around them, we may
be referred to "Jenny," to the " Songs before Sunrise," to
" Mr. Sludge, the Medium," to " The Charge of the Light
Brigade," and the, perhaps nobler, odes of welcome to
" Alexandra," and " Marie Alexandrowna." But these are,
for the most part, scarcely to be taken as specimens of the
sweetest strains of which our minstrels are capable ; they
are not the works in which they give utterance to the
fulness of their hearts, the songs with which the world will
always associate their names. The writers who choose
modern topics as their most congenial themes are the
" Poet Buchanan," as his publishers used to delight to style
him, and Dr. Martin Tupper. If we turn to any good book
of extracts, such as that edited by Professor Morley, we
find that the pieces quoted as characteristic of our leading
poets are, as a rule, those which deal with the Past rather
than the Present.
We have become so accustomed to this peculiarity of
modern verse that it requires some intellectual effort to
bring one's mind into a position to appreciate its impor-
552 St. Jatnes's Magazine.
tance. And yet if we bring to bear on the study of poetry
the method of the comparative sciences, we shall find that
the tendency, which is the subject of our consideration, is
essentially a characteristic of those poets who rank, at
highest, in the second class. The greatest makers, the men
who have taken the strongest hold upon the sympathies of
their hearers, went to work in a manner far different from
this. Homer was content to paint the world of men and
things as he saw it with his own eyes ; so, we fancy, was
the author of the Book of Job. If they wove antique
fancies into the fabric of their song, they were yet careful
to base it upon the facts of the universe with which they
stood face to face. If they adorned their work with fan-
tastic architectural designs, they still wrought the framework
of their building of stone hewn from the quarries of the
existent world, not of bricks gathered from the scattered
ruins of the monuments of ancient days. Shakespeare and
his circle treated of the men and manners that they saw
around them ; and, in dealing with bygone times, were even
drawn by their intense objectivity into what some may deem
inartistic anachronisms. Even the Greek tragedians, in
choosing their subject-matter from the heroes of their
mythological history, told the tale of men more closely
allied with themselves and their hearers than are the knights
of the chivalric stories with ourselves. We must, indeed,
admit that in all epochs of poetry of which we have
any historical knowledge there has not been wanting
teachers who have thought fit to deliver their mes-
sage to the world through the medium of tales of the
remote or nearer past. But a brief examination will clearly
demonstrate that in not a single instance are these to be
placed in the first rank of singers. In many cases they
seem to have missed this lofty position by the very defect
of which we are writing. To select a few out of innu-
merable instances, compare Vergil with Lucretius and
Lucan, Gower with Chaucer, Petrarch with Dante, Dryden
at his worst with Dryden at his best ; Landor, Southey, and
Moore, with Wordsworth and Coleridge ; and note how the
greatest minds have always been moved most strongly by
contemporaneous events, and have given their best days to the
Latter-day Verse. ^v5 ^ VQR^ 553
analysis and record of the life around them. In the pre-
sent is their real work ; the past but affords amusement for
their hours of relaxation.
It remains for us to suggest a cause for the phenomenon
under our consideration, and to give a brief glance at its
effects upon modern poetry as a power in the world, and on
the rank to be assigned to the poets of our day by the
settled judgment of posterity. Poetry is now less than ever
the spontaneous outburst of the full heart yearning to find
utterance. The men whom we place highest in the scale of
living writers are, without exception, men of the widest and
most comprehensive culture ; and this fact has what we are
almost tempted to call an oppressive influence upon their
verse. Custom seems to —
" Lie upon them with a weight
Heavy as frost and deep almost as life."
They are overawed by the shadow of the mighty names of
those who have gone before. One would think that they
had learned their humanity not by intercourse with their
fellows, by sympathetic participation in the sufferings and
struggles of living men and women, but by the study of the
works of those who have been really schooled by this stern
discipline. Like the rest of us, they seem to have acquired
not only their faith and hope, but even their charity, second-
hand. Thus, by degrees, those whose genius we reverence
have taught us to consider only those things of which their
masters have sung to be fit for poetry, and to spurn the
facts of our own lives as prosy and materialistic, unfit for
the ideal world in which our souls love to roam at will. It
would almost seem that our poets are so thoroughly imbued
with veneration for their predecessors that they would deem
it to be a mark of presumption to dare to forsake the beaten
paths which the mighty dead have hallowed by their foot-
steps. True, it may be said that the human virtues, the
deep sympathies, the passionate emotions, the despicable
vices, which form the motive power of mortal life are the
same in all ages. We grant it. But why should the modern
poet act as though there were no heroism to be found in the
world in which he lives, no idealism to be extracted from
554 St. James's Magazine.
the realities which press so painfully upon us ? Why should
the story of Sigurd find a singer, while that of Hastings and
Clive, of Havelock and Napier, is yet among the things that
are not ? Why should the epic of Hades be told once more
by a poet, while the greater epic of the earth, as we possess
it, is relegated to three-volume-novelists and the exponents
of the later English drama ?
" While a lip grows ripe for kissing,
While a moan from man is wrung,
Know, by every want and blessing,
That the world is young."
That our suggestion that these things might be " otherwise
than thus " is no vain and chimerical fancy may be proved
by the mention of the one genius of the highest rank yet in
our midst, who has shown, and is still busy in showing, how
the problem of existence may be tried by the light of the
realities of life ; how contemporaneous events afford instances
of sublime heroism than which the tales of Leonidas and
Horatius are not more glorious. Need we say that we mean
Victor Hugo ?
But our singers, though yielding to the great Frenchman
the profoundest reverence, cannot, or will not, follow in his
footsteps. And what is the result ? It is this, that they have
alienated the minds of the majority, and now find, fit audience
we doubt not, but few withal. When the poet was the
exponent of the vital spirit of his age, he sang for the delight
and illumination of all his fellow-men. It was not before a
chosen circle of mutual admirers, but before the whole body
of the citizens of Athens that the Three Tragedians played
their master-pieces. It was not for a numerically insignifi-
cant minority, but for a nation of heroes, that the Elizabethans
filled the large air which they breathed with sounds that echo
still in the hearts of all who hear them. But of what living
poet of any eminence can it be predicated that he sings for
all ? Shall not the wise, as well as the witless, have their
poets ? asks Mr. Stedman ; and the question strikes the key-
note of our present discussion. No great English poet of
the time has the power, or the will, to touch the deep heart
of the masses of his countrymen, as Homer touched the
Latter-day Verse. 555
hearts of every Greek, as Dante stirs the pulse of every
Italian. Duke est desipere in loco, soothed by the pleasant
companionship of the author of the " Earthly Paradise;"
delightful it is to dream away a summer day, reclining
beneath the shade of a spreading beech, charmed by the tale
of Lancelot and Guinevere; sweeter still, perhaps, to quote —
" If Love were what the rose is,"
in the sentimental moonshine. But are these the strains
which fit a man for the battle, and give him strength to
start in the race for the prize of life ? Must we believe that
the conditions of true poetry have, of late years, been
entirely changed ? Or shall we say that experience leads us
to anticipate that, when time has mellowed and matured
the judgment of our children, they will place in the first
rank of the poets of this age, not Mr. Tennyson and Mr.
Morris, but Messrs. T. W. Robertson and H.J. Byron ?
Herbert Thirkell White.
Sonnet.
|Y soul is sad : the singing birds, whose songs
So filled my heart with melody divine,
Are stilled within me, and life's roses pine
For the sweet sunshine that to them belongs.
The sun has set, and in the twilight throngs
Of shadowed forms assemble : midst them thine,
Like to an angel's 5 holding forth a sign
To tell my love atones for all past wrongs.
Stay, spirit of the loved, though I but see
Thy form, and cannot clasp thee as of yore j
Teach me the mysteries of the vast " to be,"
The tomb, the troubled sea, the golden shore,
The land celestial, where for never mote,
I doubt Love's strong immutability.
Horace Lennard.
A Cup of Tea in Gray s Inn Road.
By JAMES GEORGE HARWOOD.
FRIEND of mine had often spoken of the curiosity
shops to be found at the Holborn end of Gray's
Inn Road. He had also assured me that if I
knew anything of the value of old china or prints, or cared
to possess other curiosities of more ornament than use, I
should stand a chance of making a good bargain in that
locality ; that if I only went to have a look round, I should
be gratified ; and he enlarged so considerably on a pair of
very old Indian swords, a flint-lock pistol, and one or two
other odd articles which had attracted his fancy, that I
became quite eager to see these relics of former ages, and
immediately looked over the engagements I had for my
spare time, that I might take the earliest opportunity of
visiting the place. When I had fixed the day, I became
filled with anxiety lest these precious curiosities should have
found purchasers and be lost to me. Indeed, had not my
engagements been of a nature I could not well overlook, I
should have deferred one of them, and given its place to my
ramble along Gray's Inn Road.
The theme of my conversation became one that surprised
my friends. I had never shown the least inclination to
turn antiquarian, and now, whenever I set eyes on anything
at all out of date, I commenced descanting on its use and
beauty, contemporaneous circumstances connected with it,
the idea that probably originated it, and to trace to its
source anything, however distantly related to the piece of
vertti I dwelt upon, with a wonderful diffiiseness. In short,
I seemed stricken with an antiquarian feve£Tgitiz(§py(may the
best of us be carried away by impassioned eloquence. My
A Cup. of Tea in Grafs Inn Road. 557
friend was one of those persons who thoroughly enter into
whatever they are engaged upon, and although I now have
reason for supposing he does not care twopence for old
swords or pistols, partly because he is so mighty dexterous
with those of modern manufacture, and his appreciation is
given to them ; yet, at the time of which I speak, he led me
to believe, by his emphatic oration on the merits of those
bygone specimens, that his very heart and soul were rammed
down the barrel of a flint-lock pistol, and that to lose a
limb through the instrumentality of an old Indian sword
was an ecstacy he did not dare aspire to.
As the time approached I grew more and more concerned.
I not only felt confident that these treasures were gone, but
that the shopkeeper had had a hard time of it to settle
in a peaceable manner who should be the possessor of such
desirable curiosities, so many competitors were there. I
felt like a man who having married a pretty and charming
woman for very desperation of love, and being altogether
uncertain of possessing a fraction of her affection, is
distracted when she is out of his sight.
At length the hour arrived, and I was free to hurry off as
quickly as I chose, and gaze upon the old curiosities with
which I was so greatly interested. Take an omnibus ? No ; 1
they are continually stopping, and every minute is an hour. ?
Jump into a cab? No; the horse would be sure to fall *$j£
down. Walk? Yes, and at a pace that must have astonished \
a great number of the people who were pushing their way
along the crowded thoroughfares.
It is wonderful how much exercise will do that neither
doctors of mind nor body have any control over. It is well
known that to have a clear head one must have a healthy
body ; and to preserve the systemrin a state of health, proper
exercise must be taken. On I rushed ; my blood rushed,
too ; and such a circulation did I keep up for a good half
hour, that my spirits rose to a high pitch. I felt I could
laugh and sing and shake hands with everybody, rich or
poor ; and when I caught sight of the strange old gabled
houses, with one storey abutting over the other, at the top
of Gray's Inn Road, my mania had gone, and I hardly cared
to go any farther in that direction, just to look at a lot of old
558 St. James's Magazine.
rubbish. What a change ! That which I had valued beyond
all price was now worthless — it was rubbish ! But, thought
I, a lesson may be learnt here. I will go and see these old
swords and pistols, and, while looking at them, try to
impress upon myself the folly of raising anything (or any-
body for that matter) high in one's estimation in sheer
prejudice, without having taken the least pains to ascertain
its worth, and I will also try to reason with myself on the
irrationality of trusting to mere hearsay, whether it be to
the detriment or interest of the subject concerned.
I felt no burning desire now to seek out the one shop and
stand fixed to the pavement, gazing without any hope of
satiety. No. I sauntered along with the air of a careless
loiterer, looking now at some old china, then at some prints
or old paintings. I would cross the road to look at some
well-worn books which usually turned out of no use at all to
me, or, attracted by a pawnshop, would recross to look at
the unredeemed pledges for sale in the window. I soon
discovered this: whenever I halted and looked at any-
thing, a group of children, some just stopped crying, with
the tears still wet on their faces, some nibbling bread and
treacle, and the remainder with skipping-ropes or babies,
would come round me, and, having found out what I was
looking at, stare at it with all their might, even haggling
with each other for the best places. It happened that as I
was on the point of being compelled to retreat from my own
position — being sore beset by a young lady of eight, who was
carrying in her bare arms a good-sized baby, and seeking
what consolation she could from peppermint lozenges — as I
took a farewell glance at the contents of the shop, my eyes
alighted on the very identical old swords and pistols which
had caused me such infinite distress of mind and over-
whelming anxiety. There they were, and there they are
likely to remain. No press of customers disturbed their
peaceful rest, and I doubt not but that it will be their lot to
see one after another of their companions bought and carried
away to new scenes, until they have earned for themselves
the well-merited title of oldest inhabitants. I felt so
chagrined at my foolish rapture, that I feared I should find
myself running riot in an opposite direction ; that I should
A Cup of Tea in Gray's Inn Road. 559
break the window-pane, snatch at the old curiosities, and
immolate them on the spot. So I made my way through
the crowd of children and sought relief in a neighbouring
print-shop window.
Here my attention was caught by a collection of cheap
crayon copies, which were hanging upon a peg outside the
door, just level with my hat, and, mindful of a young friend
who was essaying to rival the great masters, I thought a few
of these drawings would be an incentive to further study.
Finding my arms ache after a half-hearted sort of scrutiny,
I entered the shop, and asked the woman who was in
charge if I might be permitted to take the copies off the
peg and examine them in a more convenient place. The
woman was very polite, and invited me not only to look
over the copies which she immediately took down from the
peg, but placed two or three portfolios, containing a curious
collection of odds and ends, before me, desiring that I
should look through those also. Between whiles I took a
glance around to see what sort of place it was into which I
had strayed. The frontage of the shop was about seven
feet. The shop-window was full of old prints and dust, and
occupied a considerable portion of the whole apartment. On
each side of the shop were narrow counters placed against
the walls, and above these hung more old prints, with a few
old oil paintings and water-colour drawings by way of
variety. Where the counters left off the domestic part of
the establishment began. The fire-place projected into the
room as far as the breadth of the counter on the right-
hand side, and there was a kettle on the fire, and something
simmering in a jam-pot on the hob. On a chair by the fire
dosed a cat, and in another chair by the table, at the further
end of this shop-parlour, sat a second cat. Some bread
and a few platters were on the table. The place was
nearly dark, and in a state of. indescribable chaos; and
yet there seemed such a curious kind of harmony in the
motley assemblage, that I by no means experienced any
feeling of repulsion at the scene. The woman was soon
joined by a man, who was also very civil ; and man,
woman, cat, shop, old prints, and even the jam-pot on
the hob, were so oddly alike, so* tarred with the same
560 St. James's Magazine.
brush, and yet so incongruous in their assortment, that I
considered if my friend had descanted on this grouping, and
not on the wretched old swords and pistols, I would not
only have forgiven him, but would have invited him to a
good dinner for the treat he had been the means of placing
under my notice. I purchased a few crayon copies and
walked out of the shop, continuing my way along the road,
and as I went reflected, and amused myself with fancy his-
tories of the curiosities, old china, prints, and unredeemed
pledges — andthese were painful ones — that I had seen.
Having finished examining the curiosity-shops in which
this thoroughfare abounds, I turned round ; and was pro-
ceeding homewards, when my nostrils sniffed in the
delightful aroma of hot tea. A young urchin in a neatly
patched jacket, with a rough head of red hair, was
carrying a large yellow jug of this smoking beverage, on
the top of which was poised a platter of thick bread and
butter. There was a homely look about the whole thing
that carried me away. All was so clean and nice ; the
rough, red hair, was not disagreeable ; the style of wearing
it suited the roguish, merry face of the owner, who,
with his mouth pursed up, was whistling at a furious rate.
A vision of a kind mother and a good wife seemed to float
over that yellow jug of hot tea, and I became ravished with
the desire for a cup of the tempting fluid. In a moment I
had stopped the boy, and, by way of opening the business,
had enquired whither he was going. He stopped short,
much amazed, and look somewhat puzzled ; then he said :
" If it's a trac' put it on this 'ere bread and butter, because
my 'ands is full." I laughed at the boy's mistake, and said
I wanted to know where he was taking his beautifully
scented tea and homely bread and butter.
As we were both going the same way we chatted as we
went along, and I found my young companion both intel-
ligent and communicative. He told me he was carrying
the tea to his brother, who was a telegraph messenger-boy ;
that twice a week this brother of his had to stay on duty till
seven o'clock, and on those days he always carried his
brother's tea to the post office, which was close at hand.
He said he and his brother were very fond of each other,
A Cup of Tea in Grafs Inn Road. 561
and that Richard (his brother's name) often gave him a
penny or two with which to buy such delicacies as his heart
turned towards. I was surprised to find, in a child with
such a rough exterior, a nature so pleasing and attractive ;
and, coming to a point where our ways diverged, I dismissed
the urchin with a sixpenny-piece for himself, to be spent as
he pleased. He went off highly pleased, and before he was
out of sight he was whistling with redoubled energy.
As I wished to make my way in the direction of Portland
Place, I thought I might lessen the distance, by taking a
short cut instead of retraversing the whole length of the
Gray's Inn Road. With the intention of making enquiries
as to the best route to take, I accosted a neatly-dressed
little man, who Was hurrying along at a rapid pace. He
stopped abruptly, and seemed to be extricating himself from
a maze of thought into which he had unconsciously
wandered ; and, begging my pardon, asked me to repeat my
question. He was one of those meek, complaisant men,
whose only fear is that they cannot do enough to oblige,
and who put themselves in such a flurry in their anxiety to
do all they possibly can, that one feels pained at even
having given them cause thus to trouble themselves. After
a very long account of the turnings I must take to the right
and to the left, he was bidding me good-day, when the red-
haired boy, who, having fulfilled his office of tea-carrier and
was returning home, appeared at his elbow, and saluted him
with " 'Ullo, father J " Then, turning to me, said : " 'Ullo,
sir.'" The father asked if I knew his boy. I explained
what had occurred, and, laughingly, mentioned the delicious
aroma of the tea.
" Well, sir," the little man said, " if it ain't being rude
to ask you, come in and have a cup. Mother will be proud
to see you, won't she, Jack ?" Jack answered with a ready
" rather," and scampered off to tell his mother the " gent "
was coming, before I had had time to decide either way.
" He is a boy, that," said the little man. " Always as you
see him, rough and ready, cheerful and merry. Oh ! that's
nearly poetry!" and he laughed with much pleasure at
what he was pleased to consider his poetic talent. Then,
as we went along, we talked on general topics. I learnt
562 St. James's Magazine.
from odd bits of conversation that my companion was a
City clerk. He owned his work was monotonous, but he
had a dear little wife, affectionate children, and a comfort-
able home, and he did not think he could be much happier ;
" for," he said, " you know money doesn't make you happy;"
which must be a remarkable consolation to the poor. We
turned down a street leading off Gray's Inn Road, and soon
stopped at a tidy-looking house — a much better tenement
than I should have thought a man in his position would
have occupied. There were pretty white curtains in the
windows ; the doorsteps were clean and well swept ; and with
the exception of a coat of paint on the front door, nothing
more could be desired to make the exterior of the house
thoroughly presentable.
" You won't mind coming down the area, will you, Sir ? "
the little man asked, whose name I afterwards found was
Ablet ; " because I don't believe the front-door has been
unbolted, and I don't think mother can reach the top bolt.
You see, when the lodger's away, we have no occasion to
use the front-door, except on Sundays."
I readily acquiesced in his proposal, and we descended
the area steps. " Mother," as he called his wife, was
expecting us, and Jack, now transformed into a smooth-
headed, well-dressed boy, opened the door to us. Not with-
out some little formality was I introduced to the family.
" My wife, Sir," Mr. Ablet said, regarding the little
woman with eminent satisfaction. She was a crummy
woman, fair, and about eight or nine and thirty, neatly and
plainly dressed, with a dimple on her right cheek and a
beautiful blue bow pinned under her chin. She was nursing
a fine child of about two years.
" My daughter Mary, Sir ; the eldest." Mary looked
about eighteen years of age, and she blushed so prettily as I
bowed to her, that I thought the man who gained so sweet
a girl for his wife will have good reason for saying, as my
friend had owned to me, that money did not make him
happy. His wife would do that.
" I needn't introduce Jack, I don't think ; and baby's
hardly old enough to understand such things; and. pf
Digitized by VjOOQIC
A Cup of Tea in Gray's Inn Road. 563
course, as you know, there's Richard at the Post Office, and
now we're all told."
I reminded my friend that he had quite forgotten to
mention my name, and, indeed, so pleased did he seem with
his task of introduction, and so delighted was he when I had
boldly stepped forward and kissed the baby, that I verily
believe that part of the ceremony would have been entirely
omitted. Then the little man explained how our rencontre
had taken place, after which account Jack told his story and
shewed five coppers, saying he had bought a " pen'orth of
sweets " on his way back, or else he would have had a
silver sixpence ; then he insisted on us having a " sweet "
all round, at which his mother said he was not to bother
the gentleman ; and baby, highly delighted with his sweet,
laughed and nearly shook himself out of his mother's arms
with glee, and then we all laughed and felt we had known
each other for years. We sat round the table to tea, and a
merry meal we had. The tea was delicious; the aroma
emanating from the tea-pot even more captivating than that
which had first caused me to speak to young Jack, who was
now seated next to me, under promise of being extra good
and not " bothering," but try his hardest, he was compelled
to shuffle his chair in my direction and exclaim, in the full
enjoyment of a substantial slice of bread and butter, " This
is jolly, mother, ain't it ? " When the cake was handed
round Mrs. Ablet said it was of Mary's own making, so I
declared on that account I must have a larger piece, where-
upon Mary blushed so sweetly that I would have eaten the
whole cake to have seen her blush again. While we were
thus busied we talked of games and places of amusement.
Looking at Mary, with all my might, I suggested that after
tea we should play a game of " old maid." Mary, looking
at me quite triumphantly, said she was willing enough, for
she had no fear. Then Jack was going to whisper some-
thing to me, but was stopped by his sister, who called out,
" Jack, Jack, nonsense!" I had my suspicions and these
were afterwards verified.
The tea-things had scarcely been removed, when someone
was heard descending the area steps, and Mary began to
fidget and grow nervous, at last turning as red as a peony.
39
564 St. James's Magazine.
" Here's Mr. Quick ! " said the little man. " This is
fortunate. Run, Mary ; let him in, child."
Mary, glad to have an opportunity to escape and hide her
confusion, hastened to obey. Immediately after the door
had been opened I fancied I heard a sound like that of a
very decided kiss.
" It's her young man," Mr. Ablet remarked. " He's here
every night about this time, but I'm always obliged to
appear a little surprised when he comes, because they're
not engaged yet, and it wouldn't do to make a regular thing
of it ; would it, mother ? " he asked, turning to his wife.
" Well, you're a pretty one to ask-me," his wife retorted,
smiling all over her face, and making the dimples play on
her rosy cheeks like wind over a cornfield. " I'm sure I
never had an evening to myself when you were courting.
You were regular enough."
"Well, mother," the little man said, leaning over his wife,
and affectionately kissing her; "you don't regret it, do
you ?" I asked Jack his age at this juncture, by way of not
interfering in the domestic scene, but I saw by Mrs. Ablet's
looks, when her face was no longer eclipsed by that of her
husband, that she did not regret it, rather to the contrary.
Mary, blushing with pleasure, introduced Mr. Quick, a
handsome young man in the volunteers. He had been to
drill, and, no doubt, the better to take his sweetheart by
storm, still wore his uniform. It became him well, and I
longed for the time when I should see the joy of this young
couple consummated. I told Mary I knew now why she had
no fear of playing " old maid " in reality.
Something within him caused Mr. Quick to squeeze Mary's
hand after my remark, and this sign of affection, Mary,
seeing I had noticed, thought it prudent on her part to tell
Mr. Quick to "go along," but he, with the perversity of a
lover, instead of complying with her request, did just the
opposite, and went closer.
Then came a bustling scene. Baby was sleepy ; the
" dustman " had arrived. Baby was handed round and
kissed, once, twice, or thrice, according to the temperament
of the kisser, and when all had done their share, and baby's
fat little arm had been wagged up and down to the mother's
A Cup of Tea in Gray's Inn Road. 565
" nightie, nightie," Mrs. Ablet retired to put the child to
bed.
We were not yet to settle down to our " old maid," for
just as we had made preparations for the game, Richard's
footsteps were heard, and Mary — cautious little maid — ran
out of the room, to give Richard warning (as it by-and-by
appeared) of my presence and to adjust his best bib and
tucker. Richard was a good-looking boy about fourteen,
with a healthy glow on his face, and with large blue eyes,
which had the same merry, roguish twinkle as his brother's.
In fact, I traced this peculiar attraction of the eye from the
mother through the family, and even discerned its dawn in
the baby.
" Mother" came back and said baby had been as good as
gold, and had sent a kiss to the gentleman. Of course, I
cavalierly presented myself for its reception, which called
forth a "Well done, mother," from the little man, and,
" now you're fairly in for it." Mrs. Ablet laughed, and said,
"Good gracious! what next, I wonder?" and then young
Jack put up his face to his mother, and said, " Pass it
round, mother." I knew there was mischief in this filial
affection, and was right in my conjecture ; for, no sooner
had his mother kissed him, than, to the gentleman's utter
consternation, Jack gave Mr. Quick the loudest kiss
possible, saying, " Pass it on, Mr. Quick." Now Mr. Quick
was sitting next to Mary. How we all laughed, and how
red Mr. Quick became, and how Mary, the intoxicating
little beauty, looking as she did ten times prettier under the
trying circumstances, pretended to be very much shocked at
such a dreadful suggestion, and to scold the wicked boy.
Jack was so pleased at the success of this stratagem, that
he had to retire to a convenient spot and turn a summer-
sault.
At last we commenced our game at "old maid." How
we all tried to pass the unlucky card round to poor Mary,
and how tempting her lips looked when every now and then,
as one of us would break out into a laugh, having succeeded
in passing the " old maid " one step nearer the victim, she
would exclaim, " Oh, then ! it's far too bad." What a laugh
we had, too, when Mrs. Ablet asked if it was necessary that
566 St. James's Magazine.
the pairs should be of the same suit. Dear soul ! I know
she was thinking of her sleeping baby at the time.
Mary was getting flurried. She held the unfortunate
Queen of Spades in her hand, and could not get rid of it.
Mr. Quick, who drew her cards, most dexterously avoided
taking it, and I began to be afraid that the young girl's
assertion of her want of fear with respect to such a catas-
trophe, would not be verified, for I fancied I saw a little tear
of alarm in her right blue eye. Fortunately, however,
Mr. Quick did draw the intrusive card, but after shuffling
it up with his others under the table and trying to appear
unconcerned, he thumped the table with joy when it passed
to Mrs. Ablet, who, of course, said, " It didn't make any
difference to her," and yet manifested much eagerness to
get rid of the dark old lady. This cross old party, whom
tradition holds up as the representative of the sour old age
of those maiden ladies, who, out of perversity of spirit, have
chosen to remain single, was particularly on the move that
evening. Richard drew it from his mother, and he passed
it to Mrl. Ablet. Jack drew it from Mr. Ablet and I became
the unfortunate holder, and, although I tried to retain it, with
the thought that it really did not matter to me, Mary drew
the card, and was once more in danger of being victimised.
Poor little Mary! she was almost angry when the last
pair was thrown on the table and she was made " old maid."
What now ! Mr. Quick had a card in his hand. It was the
King of Hearts !
" Oh, you must take this one," Mary said to Mr. Quick,
and there was no denying her ; so she thrust the " old maid"
into her sweetheart's hand, and he was compelled to bear
the obloquy of being not only " old maid" but " old bachelor"
into the bargain.
Mary clapped her hands quite gleefully, and I really think
Mr. Quick began to grow fearful at these signs of joy on the
lady's part. I fancied he was not quite so sure that his
account was all on the credit side of Mary's good books, and,
if I may anticipate, he, like a brave soldier, did his best to
find out before he left his "soul's idol" that evening; and
the way he did it was by " popping the question " while
whispering his adieux. Happily, he found his account as he
A Cup of Tea in Gray's Inn Road. 567
wished it, and from that time forth his visits became " regular,11
and little Mr. Ablet ceased to feign surprise. But to return to
the mysterious King of Hearts. We selected two pairs of
Kings, the legitimate number in a pack of cards, from a
debris of assorted couples, some lying on their backs looking
with a vacant stare at the flies on the ceiling, others on
their faces peering through the texture of the table-cloth,
and at last accounted for the presence of the stranger by
finding out it was the front specimen card which had found
its way into the pack by mistake.
Mr. Quick said he thought there was something wrong ;
for, if he could only be king of one heart, not far off, he
would never desire to be King of Hearts ; whereupon Mary
thought she heard baby, and took the opportunity to con-
ceal her pleasure at this compliment by putting her head
outside the door and listening for what she knew very well
she had never heard.
And so we passed a merry, sociable, and thoroughly
enjoyable evening, and when I said good-bye to my new
acquaintances, all the enmity I had cherished against the
friend who had beguiled me to Gray's Inn Road had
vanished, and in its place reigned a feeling of happy content-
ment and good-will.
I have only to add that I promised to recommend Jack
Ablet to anyone who may want a faithful and obedient youth.
He can write well, and says he is a good hand at " sums."
Those gentlemen, however, who lean towards the proba-
tionary system, and dismiss their servants just as the time
for wages approaches, are requested not to apply. Jack
does not believe in them.
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Vivisection :
A Plea for its Suppression.
By EDMUND GAISFOKD.
|E must not be surprised nor inclined to overrate
the sudden bursts of indignation which often
herald a great movement, and we must be careful
that the utmost advantage is taken of such expressions
of public sentiment. It frequently happens that abuses are
allowed to exist for years and years unnoticed and unremarked
upon, for the simple reason that attention is never called to
them, and this has been the case until very lately with the
evil of vivisection. When an agitation results in action,
moreover, the public are but too prone to take the half loaf
for a fair share of bread and to subside into their normal
posture of indifference, with regard to the question which called
forth their warmest sympathies. It is very much to be
regretted when this happens, and we sincerely hope that such
will not be the case with the anti-vivisection movement,
brrt that we shall still find support in our efforts until the
end we have in view is crowned with the most complete
success. It is with the object of preventing such an issue
as a future acquiescence in vivisection permitted under
the recent legislation, that we venture to intrude this article
upon our readers, and we ask for it a fair and impartial
judgment. First principles remind us that God gave into
the hands of man " the dominion over the fish of the sea, the
fowls of the air, and the beast of the field," but too many of
forget what dominion means. To rule is the privilege of
Vivisection : A PUa for its Suppression. 569
man; in fact, he is the only creature habiting this globe who
partakes with his Maker of the attribute of sovereignty ; but
sway means something more than mere controlling force. It
never should be lost sight of in our relations to inferiors,
whether those inferiors be men like ourselves, or animals,
that dominion has duty. To rule is not simply to enslave.
The most degraded bondsman is entitled to ask. of his master
some consideration, and the most inhuman and least incon-
siderate will grant that lordship has duties as well as rights.
Now with regard to animals, be it borne in mind that the
mere fact of their natural inferiority to ourselves in many
respects entitles them to consideration at our hands. It has •
been morally established for ages, even since the first dawn
of human greatness, that the lame, the blind, the aged, and
the infant are entitled to consideration on account of their
frailty alone ; and creatures who are dependent on us for their
daily sustenance should stand in the position of helpless
infants or naturally incapacitated persons ; but how do we
fulfil this doctrine with the animals confided to our care ?
It is but lately that statutes have been in force punishing the
brutal man who chastises unduly his horse or his ass. Yet
the Christian and the Jew might long since have learnt from
the inspired lawgiver of Israel, that God had commanded,
" Thou shalt not plough thy field with an ox and an ass, nor
muzzle the ox when he treadeth out the corn." As of all
other morality so Holy Writ on this head contains the finest
teaching, and the law which provided not alone for the com-
fort but for the sustenance and fair treatment of these
animals, without doubt forbade any such practices as those
which disgrace our nation in the present day. We say,
therefore, that animals have a distinct claim upon our atten-
tion, and although we are well aware that herein we advance
nothing new, we yet feel it to be a truth which cannot be too
often insisted on. Having established, then, that man owes
care, attention, and kindness to his ox and his ass, let us see
what he does to fulfil his mission to these his faithful ser-
vants. Apart from the mere question of how horses are
treated in town, apart from the brutality of driving a creature
with a sensitive foot like the horse over miles of rough, sharp-
pointed granite, apart from the question of long hours and
5Jo 5/. James's Magazine.
the meagre food and the cruel whip with which the horse is
driven, and apart from the scanty supply of food at the
disposal of our so-called domestic animals, the cat and the
dog, comes the one crying evil, the pains and terrors of
vivisection. It may be that the horse as a rule is not ill-
cared for, and that pets in many instances lead a pleasant
life. It may be that most of us are naturally humane to the
creatures living about us and dependent on our bounty for
their existence ; but if every horse were fed on ambrosial
food, like the coursers of Juno, and if every cat and
dog enjoyed a home of comfort) if not luxury, we
should, nevertheless, have need to raise our voices against
the sin which brings our pets to an untimely grave, and
often to far worse. It will be urged that no animal, any
more than man, can expect exemption from the natural end of
all flesh. The ox must be slaughtered, and the lamb made
to bleed for our sustenance ; but with such necessities the
death and suffering of the brute creation should cease. To
destroy for amusement, to torture for so-called scientific
enquiries, is the act of brutes, not men. Of course the
sportsman "will be indignant at the imputation of brutality,
but the rage of the'sportsman must be risked in the cause
of the progress of humanity. Prize-fighting was, a few
years ago, a grand pastime ; and rat pits, unfortunately, exist
even in the present day, though, of course, sub rosa only.
Further, bull-baiting is a national pastime in Spain, and was,
formerly, much enjoyed in England along with that degraded
sport, cock-fighting ; but no man would dare, in the present
day, to defend, cock-fighting, bull-baiting, or prize-fighting,
though the latter is to be hardly spoken of in the same
breath, for the torture of men is an entirely different thing to
the torture of animals. To this we shall refer later on, but
for the present we merely postulate that what was a few
years ago considered fashionable is now condemned univer-
sally as barbarous and inhuman, just in the same way as
we, who perpetrated so many inhumanities in the wars of
the last century, are now crying out to the God of Heaven
for punishment on the Turks for the Bulgarian atrocities.
Sport however, that is fair and manly may be, to some
. , tti . . j j Digitized by VJiT
extent, pardonable ; and yet the coolest blood will boil with
Vivisection : A Pica for its Suppression. 571
indignation to think of the mortal agony of an otter hunt, or
a pigeon match. But sport is too firmly established in this
country to be attacked from without, and the time is not
yet ripe for it to be assailed from within. But the
nature of the man who shoots a dozen or two birds in a
day is naturally callous to the sufferings of a dog or cat
when stretched upon the table of the vivisector ; and yet we
think many a soldier, who has seen his brothers dying
around him on the battle field, whose hands have been
reddened with the blood of his enemies, would shrink away
from the hand of the man, who, under pretence of science,
inflicts torture unspeakable on a dog or a rabbit. We
believe that it is mere callousness to suffering, or disbelief
in its duration, that allows a sportsman to proceed on his
career of blood from morning to night unmoved by one
glance of pity for the bright and beautiful natures he is
momently destroying, and we dismiss sport with these
words, but not without a hope that pity will one day do
what no amount of pressure from us would at present
accomplish. If God, as we firmly believe, looks down from
His Heaven upon this earth, it can hardly be pleasing to
Him to see a tract of it made one wide scene of brutal
massacre ; neither will His mercy be extended to those who
fail to recognise the ties which bind all created beings
together. We must not, however, be led to question the
reason of the existence of death in the world. Suffice it
that the mere fact of death being the inevitable end of all
creatures can form no manner of excuse for any of us
to abbreviate the career of either animal or man, and if the
sportsman really wishes to realise the feelings of a hare or
an otter, let him ask two of his friends to hunt him down
with a leash of bloodhounds, and try how he likes it when
they are panting and puffing close to his ears. At such a
moment the true test of his humanity can be found. For
our part we should like to serve the whole breed of
sportsmen in this way, and we are certain they would never
try the field again. But turning from sport, in the dis-
cussion of which we have been led to enter, to the more
immediate subject in hand, we ask what right have any of
us to make the death of an animal one of torture ? Nature
57-2 5/. James's Magazine.
is, we know, no respecter of persons, and it might be said
that she inflicts upon animals and man far more misery than
man ever inflicts upon animals or his own species. But
such an argument is as fallacious as the one of expediency.
It is more than we dare do to judge of the workings of
Nature and model our deeds by them. Nature is God, and
who shall dare to judge of His conduct? Nature on earth
works in a groove, and subject to laws we can neither
understand nor resolve. We are given a far higher
standard of conduct, and that is the gift of God
Himself to our race. By it we should be guided, for
there is no other true reason. We are Christians, and as
Christians it * is our duty to obey the teachings of the law.
Charity, love, and mercy, not alone to humanity, but to all
creation, are the doctrines in which our faith is based, and
to them we should adhere. Now the vivisectionist abides by
none of these. Nature has set her seal upon animals and
men in the several peculiarities of their frames, and Nature
has given the brute to man in a certain manner as a subject,
but in a certain manner only. Nature works her way
steadily, and in each frame on which she inflicts censure
she binds the wound with a cordial; but man does not,
even if he pretends to be emulating Nature, do this in his
conduct towards the animals on whose behalf we speak. It
is rather our province here to state known facts than to
enunciate new ones, or a picture could be drawn of the
horrors of a vivisecting lecture such as no man would ever
wish to see, and such as would bring terror into the minds
and hearts of all feeling persons. Neither is the vivisector's
cruelty confined to one experiment, or to one torture, but
hours and hours of suffering must be endured by a good
subject before the inhuman torturer is satisfied, and the
longer the creature can live in agony the greater the extent of
his torture and the satisfaction of the operator. From the
moment the creature is stretched into position until the
moment he perishes it is one prolonged suffering. Experi-
ment upon yourself. Cut your finger ; put on a piece of
sticking plaster, and on the second day take it off with a
vigorous motion, then into the wound insert a jagged instru-
ct and torment the flesh. Such an experiment is a fair
Vivisection : A Pica for its Suppression. 573
sample of vivisection, and will bring home to your mind the
suffering of a dog, a cat, or a rabbit under the hands of a
vivisector.
Now, what is the remedy for the sufferings of these poor
creatures? Not the half devised expedient of licensing.
Who does not know by this time that every Act of Parlia-
ment becomes a dead letter when the heart and soul of the
people for whom it is enacted is not in it ? The real remedy
lies in bringing home to the vivisector the knowledge of his
own evil. Teach the wretch that he is doing a wicked
thing. Let him know that his knife violates the law of
God as well as the law of man. Let him know the abhor-
rence in which you hold him. We do not say have nothing
to do with a butcher and exile the man who furnishes the
community with meat from society, for butchers must exist,
and, as a rule, are by no means inhuman men ; but we do
not let them sit on juries for the reason of their supposed
callousness to life and suffering. The comparison rather shows
the vivisector as the hangman of science than the mere butcher
for its existence. The difference is one easily appreciated.
Whoever yet thought of shaking the hand of the hangman,
though it may be that he does his duty well ? We recom-
mend, then, that we should make up our minds to be rid of
vivisection through the vivisector. Declare a war, open and
unconcealed, against every man who imbues his hand with
the blood of cruelty. As we would against the murderer of
man so let us be at war with the murderer of the brute creation.
Neither acknowledge nor admit the right of science to be
cruel, and in order to compel the vivisector to abandon his
labour drive him from among honest, God-fearing men, until
the end is accomplished. This is the real way to stop the
practice and a way that lies open to all of us. Public opinion
it was, more than law or police interference, that stopped the
disgraceful scenes of the cockpit and the prize ring. Let
public opinion in the same way interfere to stay the cruelty
of man. We plead for those who cannot plead for them-
selves, but it is necessary to do more than plead, and the
thing is neither to be accomplished by public meetings nor
by the action of private societies alone, or chiefly. Let us
574 St. James's Magazine.
say that we will exclude from society each and every man
who practises this cruelty on the brute creation, and our
success is certain. But shall we have the moral courage
to do this ?
It is not so long ago since our ancestors were struggling
for the emancipation of practically vivisected man, — slaves.
We were long in coming to the conclusion that slavery
ought not to disgrace a free people ; but, when we once
resolved to be just, all opposition was swept away, and, like a
breeze of summer, the breath of liberty scattered to the
winds the fetters of the slave. Also we rejoiced in religious
persecutions, which, unfortunately, are not wholly abandoned
even at the present day; but the strong voice of public
opinion made the religious beliefs of a man safe from actual
bodily persecution, if we have not yet learnt to emancipate
his mind entirely.
Now we are progressing still further in the humanitarian
direction. We have at last arisen to the knowledge of the
true meaning of our religion of love. It includes all races,
all men, and all brutes. Even when animals must be killed
for our safety or utility, we must inflict no unnecessary pain
on them, and the cruel tortures of vivisection are as
disgraceful to the nature of the man who perpetrates them,
as to the community who permit the blood of his deeds to
remain upon their heads. If the groans of one tortured
being arise to the throne of God, the appeal there is against
us, each and individually, as much as against the one man,
who, either from education or circumstance, is callous to
the suffering he inflicts. God will surely revenge the sin
aimed against his dumb creatures, and the punishment
should fall on those who stand by and see the crime com-
mitted as much as on the man who commits it. We say,
then, that vivisection should be stopped entirely. None are
at issue with us on the cruelty of the practice, or we should
illustrate our meaning by examples. Alas! too common,
and but too fearful to require instances. We need not
tell our readers what vivisection means, but the recent
legislation is a mere attempt to hush public opinion, and will
no more stop vivisection than a licensing. itacd^ prevents
Vivisection : A Pka for its Suppression. 575
intoxication. It is not alone to the legislators we must look,
but to society. Society that hides so many vices, and yet
has the power to stop even such a monstrous evil as
vivisection. Say, then, with us, that the practice shall be
stopped by the strong power of human condemnation. Let
every man who tortures a brute be treated as a brute, and
exiled from our hearts and our hearths, and the crimes of
these scientists will cease to be perpetrated. Nay, more,
the very men who assisted in the massacre of these unhappy
creatures will be the first to express their sympathy with
their late victims, for there can be no doubt that pity is one
of the most easily roused virtues in the human breast. The
very man who has slain and tortured cats, dogs, rabbits,
hares, and so forth, will be begging for these creatures to
be allowed to live and enjoy life, and the evil will cease.
The effort cannot be made too soon, and before the public
mind forgets the agitation which was, we hope, productive
of some little good in the preceding year.
We would, in closing our remarks, observe that there seems
to be some misapprehension as to the reality of the suffering
of vivisected animals. For those who are not inclined to
try the experiment we suggested above, or believe that
animals are less sensitive to pain than man, let it be remem-
bered that man's constitution differs in one important point
from that of all other created beings. Man is the only
animal who inflicts pain on himself and endures it patiently.
If it is said that man, highly sensitive in frame and mind, is
the most suffering of all creatures, against this is the fact
that he is, of all animals, the most capable of bringing the
action of mind to bear upon matter, and enduring with
patience the suffering that would drive an animal frantic ;
and further, man has some experience in pain and can
console himself in the depth of extreme suffering with the
knowledge that it must soon cease, or the hope that someone
will bring relief ; but what does the cat beneath the knife of
the savage operator know of relief or of the power which
enables man to endure pain? Nothing. It is torture, it is
agony, and there is no hope for release but in death. From
the walls of the dissecting rooms, from the theatres and the
Digitized by VjOOQlC
576 St. James's Magazine.
operating tables, the groans of millions of unhappy brutes
cry aloud to the Lord of all flesh, the God of brute as well
as man, for mercy and pity, and if we claim for ourselves
God's pity for our weakness, let us bestow our own on these
miserable tortured creatures, and put down this shocking
barbarity of vivisection with a hand of iron and a voice of
thunder.
A Song for the Girl I Love.
A song for the girl I love —
God love her !
A song for the eyes of tender shine,
And the fragrant mouth that melts on mine,
The shimmering tresses uncontroll'd
That clasp her neck with tendril gold ;
The blossom mouth and the dainty chin,
And the little dimples out and in —
The girl I love —
God love her !
A song for the girl I loved —
God love her !
A song for the eyes of faded light.
And the cheek whose red rose waned to white ;
The quiet brow, wtth its shadow and gleam,
And the dark hair drooped in a long, deep dream ;
The small hands crossed for their churchyard rest,
And the lilies dead on her sweet dead breast.
The girl I loved—
God love her !
_ Digitized by VjOOQlC
FREDERICK LaNOBRIDOE.
's£*f.
-^ -i
Olla Podrida.
MAY ist, 1877.
N this bright birthday of our bright Queen Moon,
When fresh-fledged sparrows are first taught to peck,
And fairy hands with pink-tipped daisies deck
The bed of baby Summer, (grown so soon
A man, and trousered on the first of June,)
We launch our craft, new trimmed, a little speck
Upon the sea of letters, full of wreck. —
Our hearts are merry as the May-day tune
Discoursed in discords by a rural band,
As we, with flags, new-fashioned, full unfurled,
Quit dry dock, where our hopes have left behind
Old foes and former failings ; then expand
Our white new woven sails unto the wind,
And speed with welcome words around the world.
After two years of steady advertising, the war drama is
ready for the boards of the Oriental theatre. The Musco-
vite farce is over ; the bell rings, and the curtain rises on
the first act. The thunders crash, and the lightnings of ten
thousand rifles flash with messages of Death. The world
looks on with intentest interest, and anticipates the part
England is to play. The world may rest assured that
England will do her duty. It is a time to sink party feeling
in a general desire for the upholding of our country's honour,
valour, and love of justice. The pious Russ has committed
his " faithful and beloved subjects " to the " grace and help .
of the Most High." The Turk is infuriated by continuous
578 St. James's Magazine.
snubbings and threatenings, and will fight with more fero-
cious tenacity than a bull-dog, and will exult in the devilry
of war as — a devil ! Ugh ! we shudder at the horrors into
which half of Europe is to be plunged, but must admit that
War is a necessary scourge in the present dispensation of
things. The efforts for peace have all been made half-
heartedly, and we should have been grievously disappointed
if the struggle, inevitable from the first, had been again
postponed. God defend the right ! May the strife be short
and decisive, and Europe will then be able once more to
resume that tranquility which encourages enterprise and
revives the commerce of nations.
Has the right honourable member for Bulgaria found, at
last, that it is beyond even his powers to vouchsafe so small
a grace as a post-card to ever}' would-be correspondent ?
If not, what is the meaning of the following extract from
the " agony column " of the leading journal : —
" W. E. G. must communicate with W. S. and R., or his
mother, at once."
Or is there a deep political meaning hidden beneath this
mysterious notice ? And must we suppose that the letters
W. S. R. stand respectively for Wallachia, Servia, and
Roumania, and that the advertisement is a publisher's hint
that a new pamphlet may be expected on the burning
question of the day ? We sincerely hope not. Apropos of
this, we may anticipate that if other adventurous spirits
adopt the same means of communicating with politicians,
the second column of the Times will be filled with offers of
this sort : —
" Should this meet the EYE of the M of H , he
is informed that lessons on the noble art of self-defence are
given at any hour by the Barndoor." Or this : —
" Sir S N may have a few hints on bear-leading,
gratis, by applying to ."
But, perhaps, after all, the advertisement in question does
not refer to Mr. Gladstone.
Messrs. De Morgan and Skipworth have been to the
OUa Podrida.
House of Commons, and have addressed — Mr. Whalley.
Mr. Skipworth or Mr. De Morgan, we really forget which,
and it is too much trouble to refer to a report, darkly hinted
that if the privilege of addressing the House were denied
to any stranger in the gallery, for that is the logical outcome
of their ridiculous demand, he would be compelled to seek
"fresh fields and pastures new," and to separate himself
from this community of slaves. In the old days of Drury
Lane, a costermonger, displeased at some hissing, rose in
the majesty of virtuous indignation, and exclaimed: —
" Silence, fellows, or I leave the house." We rather fancy
that he carried out his threat. But can we afford thus to
lose the purest of patriots ?
The generous gift to the British nation of Cleopatra's
Needle by the Khedive seems to be putting the government
to some little trouble; the sudden appearance of the
" ground landlord " of the soil upon which the " Needle "
stands being, to say the least, unexpected and troublesome.
But a way to remove the Needle without trespassing
suggests itself— to be managed after the style of the bill-
poster, who, in order not to encroach upon an estate on
which his posting station stood (the side of an empty house),
posted his placards by means of a suspended pedestal let
down from the roof of the house. Why not, on this prin-
ciple, erect a scaffold around the coveted ground and lift
the Needle from above ?
There is a work in the press by an unknown writer,
entitled " Survival," which is likely to create no small
sensation among nineteenth century thinkers.
A dictionary containing the correct titles for the various
grades of Judges would be useful, for even the worthy
justices themselves seem in doubt as to their identities.
The Lord Chief Baron Kelly has taken upon himself the
responsibility of correcting a learned counsel who had
40
580 St. James's Magazine.
called — well, while a doubt exists, we will say, the late Mr.
Henry Hawkins, Mr. Justice Hawkins. His lordship affirms
that he is no more Mr. Justice Hawkins than he is Lord
Chief Justice Kelly. So far so good ; but the next day we
have Mr. Justice Mellor's statement that every Judge is a
Justice. Where so much confusion exists, a dictionary of
titles is really necessary, only don't let us have it compiled
by Lord Chief Baron Kelly.
In spite of the malevolent hostility of a certain Philistine,
who dons the garb of an ancient matron, and disports him-
self in the columns of a contemporary, we welcome with,
unfeigned delight the advent of Wagner. It will be the
event of the season ; and that not only from a musical point
of view. All men who have the slightest perception and
appreciation of the value of the work of the artist who has
revolutionized the whole kingdom of modern Art, will
hasten to do honour to the great German ; and we may
expect to see the Albert Hall filled to overflowing on the
occasion of his appearance. For, notwithstanding the want
of artistic taste which is imputed to the English people, it
is a fact that Wagner has more friends in London than in,
perhaps, any capital in Europe. The enthusiastic reception
accorded to Joachim at Cambridge is a good omen for the
state of musical opinion on matters of high art. If Wagner
remains in England, as he probably will, until the Oxford
Commemoration, we may see him decked in the gown of a
D.C.L. The presentation of the degree would confer
honour on the University and on the recipient.
The important question of pure water for the English
cottage homes has been engaging the attention of the
House of Commons, and in the course of one debate a
certain M.P. showed an aptitude for parodying English
verse that would make his enemies fervently wish that he
" might write a book."
Herbert Spencer has long been credited with inventing
Olla Poirida. 581
the tit! j " Sociology," and has often been congratulated
thereon by literary friends. The fact seems to be lost sight
of that Comte, from whom, by-the-way, Spencer borrows
very freely, wrote a work entitled " Sociology." When
Comte was congratulated upon the felicity and compre-
hensiveness of the title, he frankly admitted that the credit
was due to Aristotle.
The Moody and Sankey movement has left traces of its
existence, principally in the growth of a mushroom crop of
soldiers, prize-fighters, and burglars, who stump about the
country, glorying in their abandoned professions when
qualified with the epithet " converted." The more depraved
the original calling, the more gracious the new birth. We
can, therefore, to a certain extent appreciate the feelings of
the leaders of the " Little Bethel," who have been happy
in securing a " converted potman." But we have been
somewhat exercised to discover the reasons which impel
certain revivalists to make capital out of a u converted
sweep." It is by no means unusual, in certain sects, for
the pastor of a flock to imitate St. Paul in combining
temporal and spiritual pursuits. We ourselves have dosed
peacefully under the very nose of a preacher who united the
art of shoe-making — we refrain from the obvious pun — with
the cure of souls, without feeling compelled to stare at
him as a prodigy of grace. The profession of sweeping
chimneys, as far as we know, involves no deep moral
degradation ; though, perhaps, the blackness of the outer
may to some minds furnish an apparent clue to the colour
of the inner man. We protest against this as an un-
charitable and baseless slander upon a " harmless, necessary
calling."
It is interesting to note that while some of the clergy and
church organs give way to bitter execrations against the
stage and all connected with it, one of the leading religious
weekly newspapers is under contribution to Mr. Frank A.
Marshall, the popular dramatist, for som£(i&£)<Jits best
" leaders."
582 St. James's Magazine.
A CONCEIT.
Oh ! love ! Sweet love !
Love with the golden hair,
And the smiling eyes, and the rich red mouth,
And the form so pure and fair !
Can you wonder I fear to call you mine ?
I am so human, and you so divine.
Oh ! love ! Sweet love !
Love with the silvern voice,
That sounds like the pealing of New Year's chimes,
That make all the world rejoice !
Can you wonder I love those happy bells ?
And my ears are deaf to all things else.
Oh ! love ! Sweet love !
Love with the dainty feet,
To whose fairy trippings, now fast, now slow,
My heart has learnt to beat !
Can you wonder that sometimes I look down
And glance at the edge of your silken gown ?
Oh ! love ! Sweet love !
Oh ! love so full of Spring,
With its glorious flowers, and its happy birds,
That morn, noon, and even sing! •
Can you wonder I always shall fail to see
What you love in a silly old fool like me ?
They say that W. G. Wills is writing a play for Mr.
Irving. With all due deference to Shakspere, and we
yield to none in our respect and admiration for the world's
genius, we shall be glad to see our modern Garrick in some-
thing new.
On dit that "Our Girls" is ready to take the place of
" Our Boys" as soon as there is any sign of a falling off in
A,»e popularity of the latter piece.
OUa Podrida. 583
"Jesters do oft prove prophets,'' so says the prophetic
bard of Avon. An illustration to wit. A gentleman writes
from the Athenaeum Club to the Daily Telegraph —
"With reference to your criticism of ' Pink Dominoes' I
have simply to ask, where was the Lord Chamberlain ?
"Yours truly,
" Inquisitor."
A well-known jester, who " does" for three or four of our
comic papers, contributed the following to one of them : " In
answer to * Inquisitor's ' simple question, we can inform him
that the Lord Chamberlain might be seen where every lover
of good comedy would rejoice to see him, namely, in the
stalls of the Criterion, laughing at * Pink Dominoes.' " On
the night after the appearance of " Inquisitor's" letter his
Lordship was at the Criterion, and took occasion to
congratulate the Management and the actors ; and, had the
author been there, would, doubtless, have congratulated him
also.
The pet scheme of a certain musical entrepeneur seems
destined to be nipped in the bud, and an English National
Opera House is still to be a thing of the future. For want
of the "root of all evil," the building, commenced on
the Thames Embankment, remains unfinished, and will
probably become the property of the Board of Works. So
prosy a body, will not, of course, carry out the original
intention ; but, it is hinted, will, instead, turn the building
into a public bath-house. Now is the time, we should
think, for those who have so long supported the idea of a
National Opera House by word, to come forward and do so
by deed.
We received a few days since a letter from an esteemed
country correspondent who had been exploring London
during the Easter holidays, giving an account of his " doings."
Towards the close he says : "I was greatly pleased with
my visit to the Royal Aquarium. I was agreeably surprised
to find the tanks were not empty, as I had been so often
584 St. James's Magazine.
told, and it took me a good time to see everything they con-
tained, from the " sticklebacks" to the baby alligators, which
an obliging attendant graciously stirred up for my edifica-
tion, to the peril of his own fingers. I paid a visit to the
pretty little theatre, where a capital all round performance
of Byron's flimsy, though amusing comedy, Cyril's Success,
entertained me for an hour or two ; after which, on returning
to the Aquarium, I witnessed a young lady propelled from
a cannon, the report and the discharge hardly, I fancy,
being simultaneous ; however, the thing was novel. What
with the numerous other performances, the organ recitals,
the picture galleries, and (I must not forget)" M. Ubini's
puces tnarvelleuses, the time never flagged, and I went away
envying you ' fellows ' in town who have such an awfully
jolly place within walking distance." We are very pleased
to be able to render this tribute of an impartial critic to the
success of Mr. Robertson's management. Let those cavil
who may. Everything admits of improvement, which comes
in good time. Mr. Secretary Cross takes objection to
"Zazel;" well, we can dispense with the performance of
this daring young lady, and still have in the Aquarium the
pleasantest lounge, and certainly the healthiest for both
body and mind, between Sydenham and Muswell Hill,
without the disadvantages and "fag" of a railway journey.
An enlargement will be noticed in the size of our pages
this month. Our readers will, however, observe that the
printed matter is of former dimensions, and the alteration,
therefore, will not affect the binding of the present volume,
but will allow more room for the necessary trimming. This
change gives a considerably wider margin, and presents a
page of far handsomer proportions, which will be the more
marked in future volumes when bound. Our next volume
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Promethia.
By ELLIS J. DAVIS,
AUTHOR OF "SEEN FROM THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL'S," STC.
CHAPTER XXV.
promethia's slumber.
STARTED up from my chair and faced him. He
rose slowly, but without betraying the least emotion.
Evidently he had expedled his words to produce
a powerful effedl. Sudden as thought a whirl of confused
ideas flashed through my brain. This was no lunatic, no
madman. There must be some reason, some truth in the
story he had just told; but when, in the wildest visions of
imagination, had such a thing been conceived ; when, in the
world's history, had such a labour been known. To make
the frame of man or woman might be possible ; nay, such is
the mechanical skill of the artists of the present day, that
even the delicate texture of the human skin may be equalled
by a lengthened period of application to its manufa<5ture.
Untiring labour and unceasing energy will accomplish even
this. It might be possible for man to do more, and clothe
a stru<5ture of human bones with a fabric of nerves and
muscles, in imitation of the human pattern open to the
inspe<5tion and minute study of any diligent seeker into the
mysteries of physiology ; but, granted all this, and given the
model of man made perfect in bone, flesh, skin, and sinew,
whence could come the vivifying element ? No ; it could
not be. The man before me, notwithstanding his calm
demeanour, his almost majestic, refined countenance, and his
serene aspect of truthfulness, was lying. But, more than
that, he was pretending to the accomplishment of a noble
purpose; he was wilfully perverting every vestige f
586 St, James's Magazine,
rationality in his character, and I had listened to him. I
now stood there entranced by the power of his manner and
the repose of his bearing. I was unable to denounce him
as I felt it my duty to do. If Promethia had been in the
way I should not have been subdued as I now was. Her
face, her presence, would have inspired me with strength
and courage, and before my resolute gaze the liar must
have fallen back in his chair with the confession of impos-
ture on his lips. I was alone and unaided, and his force of
will was rapidly overcoming mine. I felt myself trembling
and giving way. My knees were weakening, my heart
beating unsteadily. Was I to fall before him and be in his
power ?
At the last moment a violent effort saved me, and enabled
me to break the spell he had thrown over me by his resolute
speech.
" Dr. Delgardo," I said, "you have spoken falsely. I
love Promethia, and her purity was the work of God. Dare
you insult the majesty of your Maker with a repetition of
your abominable boast, knowing that I love her, and will be
her protestor."
He smiled calmly upon me, and extended both hands
before my chest as he returned : —
" The God who made you and me gave to us each special
talents, Mr. Harte. To Him, and to Him only, shall I
account for the use of mine. Is it that, after what I have
said, you do not believe in my handiwork ? "
" Believe that you made a woman, and that woman
Promethia. The earth holds no fairer, and God forbid that
she, or any other of His creatures, should owe their form to
such hands as yours."
" I forgive all your wild expressions, my guest," was his
response, " because I can sympathise with your feelings. I
forgive you, too, for loving Promethia. Indeed, the misery
of that love, if your affedtion be sincere, will tell its own
tale, and be to you a woeful punishment. It will work its
own vengeance on you, for the girl can never be yours. I
almost blame myself for showing her to you, though ; but
the past is past. Listen to me for a moment. That which is
strange presents difficulties to your mind, but consider what
Promethia. 587
would the savage think of a ship or a steam engine. Mind
dare execute all that it can conceive. I have done this
thing, and the proof that I have accomplished my labour
stands before you in Promethia. Is she not different to
every other woman ? "
" True," I replied ; " but you know why that is. Doubt-
less you have told her this story."
" Oh ! Mr. Harte," he broke forth, somewhat angrily, " you
dare to doubt my word, and are, yourself, afting lie upon
lie to me. Do you not know that Promethia has heard
what I have now told you ? I thought you were too bold a
man to descend to falsehood. I thought you had some
sense of honor in your breast."
I confessed my guilt by the blush on my cheek and the
drooping of my head. A few days back and not even the
fear of death, or worse, would have led me to take refuge in
deception. Mere love for Promethia had argued away
every scruple, and to lull this man into security while I
won "her heart was all I thought of. The descent from
virtue is proverbially rapid. I dared hardly to look him
in the face, and his power over me grew in proportion as I
became weak before him. He addressed me again in a
solemn voice.
" If, Mr. Harte, I had done this thing for gain, for fame,
for curiosity, for any mean or base purpose, I should
deserve eternal execration, and often, often, have I been weak
enough to dream of the destruction or suspension of my
labours for fear lest they were not wholly lawful. The
motive for my work has triumphed over all else. Promethia
rose beautiful and perfect from my hands, and even you
have admitted, sceptic though you are, that she has made
you feel for her what you never felt for woman yet, a pure
and holy love, a love that lives beyond all else. Have I
then laboured quite in vain ? "
" I cannot, I will not hear more," I burst forth. " If you
insist in endeavouring to convince me that you are something
more than man, show me how this thing was done. Prove
it to me by better evidence than mere words and bombast."
He looked at me steadily. His eyes seemed to pierce my
brain. No thought of mine was secret from his glance.
588 St. James's Magazine.
He was gazing, as it were, into my very soul. At length he
appeared content with the result of the scrutiny, and
said : —
" You have asked that which I never would have granted
to mortal man. Mind, you have asked it. My decree has
not led me to reveal to you mysteries which blight the
daring soul who faces them, or enchain him to them with
a power nothing can control. And yet, no ! You cannot
face them. Indeed, you cannot. You might tremble, you
might fail, and then I should lose you. No, Mr. Harte,"
and the expression of his face became fixed and stern. " You
shall have a proof, but it will not be a pleasant one. You
shall learn my power, you shall see my labour. Your
doubting mind has raised an obstacle between me and the
brightest progress. It is difficult to teach the world
wisdom ; but you, an individual, shall at least know what
can be accomplished by man, and I will make you feel that
there is earthly knowledge beyond your comprehension.
You fear me not ; but you shall be of use to me."
I did not then understand the threat conveyed in his last
words as he motioned to me to follow him, and moved
towards the door. I obeyed in silence.
It was late. We had been talking longer than I imagined,
and I remember, as I left the room, glancing round and
noticing that the hands of the clock marked the hour of
midnight. I had drank a little claret during the evening
while he had been talking, but, against my habits, had
refrained from smoking ; neither had the dcx5tor indulged in
his usual after-dinner cigar. I suppose the subje<5t we had
been discussing prevented all thoughts of anything but
itself, and so we sat there without the least inclination to
smoke or drink. The fire was still blazing brightly when
we quitted the room. The gas was alight, though lowered
in some of the passages. We left the sitting-room, the
doctor closing the door of it carefully and noiselessly behind
him, and proceeded in the direction of my bedroom.
Although I had now been some weeks an inmate of the
do<5tor's house, I had not become familiar with the passages
and different rooms; for, not wishing to intrude on the
doctor or his patients, I had made it a rule to avoid going
Promethia. 589
about the house except when passing from my bedroom to the
sitting-room I occupied during the day and the dining-room,
and the construction of the passages being somewhat
irregular and complicated, I found riot a little difficulty in
determining were we were, and in what direction we were
going, other than that it was towards my bedroom. The
doctor walked slowly, and I followed his footsteps. We
arrived at the foot of the first staircase, and ascended, he
motioning me to be cautious, and tread lightly. His eyes
were ever watchful, ever turning round to look if I was
behind, and pursuing his footsteps in good faith, and
without fear of hesitation. To tell the truth, I had at first
been rather nervous of him, but when once on my feet, and
in motion, I recovered my usual bearing, and felt fully
prepared for anything that might happen. He would find
he had an ugly customer to deal with if he played me any
tricks. What he intended to do I could not conceive, but
I had determined to take every advantage of his confidence
on* account of Promethia, for whose safety I was more than
ever anxious. After threading one or two more passages,
my guide suddenly paused before a door-way, and held up
his hand, motioning me to be very silent. He opened the
door, and signed to me to follow. I did so, and we entered
a chamber, which, with the furniture and surroundings, I
readily recognised as the room I had seen the previous night.
It was a large room, furnished as a sitting-room in front,
but at the far end a niche was filled by a bed, with light
gauze curtains to cover it by night, while folding-doors
closed it by day, and at the foot of it was a sliding panel,
now open, revealing a space which contained all a lady's
toilet requisites. I could see, in the very faint light which
fell through the window from the moon-beams, that there
was someone in the bed, though, if he or she slumbered, or
was awake, no sound indicated.
The dodtor advanced slowly to the side of the bed, and
lit a gas-lamp at the head. He next passed his hands above
the form of a woman, which was distinctly visible beneath
the coverlet, as if he were mesmerising the sleeper, making
no contact, but simply vigorous passes up and down and
across. I watched him with some anxiety, for I would not
5go St. James's Magazine.
venture near until he called me. I had an idea who lay
there, and the repose of the woman I loved was sacred to
my heart.
Presently his labour seemed accomplished, and he turned
to me.
" You have doubted my words, and denied the capability
of these hands to execute the conceptions of my brain. Look
on the first produft of my toil, and tell me if my exertions
have been wholly wasted. She will not wake now ; approach,
have no fear."
As he said this, he stooped over the form of the sleeper,
and drew off the whole of the bed-furniture which covered
her exquisite form. She lay sleeping quietly, and the
change produced not the slightest effedl in her repose. She
was smiling in her sleep, and seemed utterly unconscious of
anything going on around her. Neither did she betray the
least sense of knowledge of her surroundings ; she lay there
in perfect peace and serene ignorance of the fadt that her
couch had been invaded. Her slumber should have been
sacred, but in the death-like stillness which surrounded her
I neither thought nor felt it to be at all improper to look
upon her as she lay, neither did she seem to me, or arouse
within my breast one thought other than as if I were in the
presence of an exquisite picture. It was as though I had
been called upon to view a magnificent piece of sculpture —
nothing more. Her beauty, her charm of person and pre-
sence, her features — the facile sympathy by means of which
she mastered all my manly nature, and made me but a slave
at her feet, all was quiescent as night itself. Her presence,
pure and marble-limbed, neither had the least effedl on my
senses or my feelings. I gazed because I was told to do so,
and, as I obeyed, not a shadow of a sensual feeling agitated
me. I was viewing a work of art or nature with the eye of
an artist, and nothing more. Let those who think otherwise,
who cannot look at Nature's loveliness in its purest form
without becoming aware of their own sensual nature, con-
demn that nature for their evil thoughts. To me I saw no-
thing but purity ; I felt all pure, and I am certain, though
my companion had, like myself, worshipped this woman's
•ty as a thing worthy of possession, that neither by word
Promethia. 591
nor look did he indicate one indelicate, one improper
thought. Yet I must tell the truth : Promethia slept with
no garment to hide her graceful form, the snow-white purity
of her figure, but the one which Nature gave to the first
woman — her own bright and beautiful robe of long flowing
hair. Promethia's was so thick that it hung all around her,
and lay on limbs and chest like a veil of amber. It concealed
entirely the outlines of the inferior limbs, and all that was
distinctly visible to our gaze consisted of the snowy shoulders,
the marble breast, the majestic head, and the supple neck.
Her arms were also bare, for the hair fell right down in rich
folds and thick masses, wrapping up all that was so snowy
white and beautiful from our eyes and thoughts. We stood
by the side of the sleeping woman, as perfectly indifferent to
her exterior perfections and her present state as if she were
a block of stone, and he the artist displaying to the eye of a
critic his finished work, now seen for the first time in all its
rich perfection and graceful beauty of conception and exe-
cution.
Neither of us could speak for some moments while we
watched her sleeping so serenely. Night was pillowed on
her breast, and the calm of the repose of earth lay by her
side to watch her and protect her slumber. From her brow
the golden-brown locks streamed gracefully, and the white
lids were sealed in perfect peace over the eyes I knew to be
so expressive and brilliant. She slept. I wonder if she
dreamed ; and, if she did, was it of me ?
" Well," the doctor's voice broke in on my reverie, " is
there anything wanting in the form and fashion of this
woman ? "
" Nothing," I returned, " but one thing, and that is love.
She does not love as yet."
" Love ! I thought there was no such thing for you. Wc
will discuss that some other time, though. Look here, and
tell me if you ever saw the arm of man or woman more
perfect than this one. Was ever face made more beautiful, or
features fashioned on a fairer mould ? See how her bosom
rises and falls in perfect serenity, in truest time ; note it,
seventeen breathings to each minute, regular and without
disturbance. See how her eyes close, and her ruby lips kiss
59-2 St. James's Magazine.
one another ; see how, even in the deepest slumber, the
smile of a tranquil heart is upon her face ; and in what perfect
repose all her limbs fall softly beneath the shadows of her
surroundings. Oh, my friend, have you ever beheld a more
perfect woman ? "
He indicated all these beauties as he mentioned them ;
he showed me the symmetry of the arms, and the graceful
curves of the muscles of the neck and chest ; he pointed to
her high and noble brow, and, as he raised a tress or two of
the hair, he called attention to the colour and lustre of the
ornament as a whole ; he lightly touched her cheek, indi-
cating the rich glow of health, and the pure current of
young blood that flowed beneath and made itself visible,
coursing through the veins. He forced me to take in to my
soul the whole woman, Promethia, as a perfedt being, and,
as he ceased, I was impelled to answer him truthfully.
" God has made her the most perfect of womankind,
Dr. Delgardo."
He laughed a wild, scornful laugh, and tossed back his
haughty head, while he turned on me with a look of scorn
and anger.
" God made ! Fool, look here. Did you ever see any-
thing God had made like this ? "
He seized my arm somewhat roughly, and led me forward.
Pressing the other hand on my neck, he forced my body
over until my eyes were within an inch or so of Promethia's
face ; then he as suddenly released me and continued :
"What have you to do with what God made? Is that
being, so perfeft, so beautiful, of the same race as the sons
of earth ? Follow me here ; do you not observe the perfect
contour of the face, the marvellous symmetry of the neck and
shoulders, the wonderful exactness of the proportion of
every part of the body ? and look, but as a specimen, to that
arm ; why, do you know there is power enough in the muscles
of that arm to annihilate us both, were it not for the other
forces which keep it in check. God never made woman as
powerful as Promethia, as He never made woman as perfedt.
See, for example, even in her sleep, her power of muscle."
He laid hold of her hand as he spoke, and folded in the
fibers a stout gold pencil case, which he produced from his
Promethia. 593
pocket. He gently agitated the muscles of her arm, and
behold the fingers closed, entirely without effort, and bent
the solid metal as if it had been a piece of wire. I took it
from her hand ; there was no deception in this, at least. But
the adt did not convince me.
" I do not deny that Promethia is wonderfully strong ; but
I have read somewhere of the story of Samson, and I be-
lieve he also had a great quantity of hair ; besides, she may
have been trained to use her fingers from youth."
" You are hard to convince. It is impossible to show you
those special signs, which a medical man would understand
in a moment, because you have not sufficient knowledge on
the points which they affect. You see that mark on her
neck ; did you ever see woman scarred like that ? "
" True ; you have been guilty of some cruelty to her."
He fairly lost his temper.
" By God, Mr. Harte, this is too much ! This being, Pro-
methia, is my dearest, my life, my love. For her I would
perish; to make her happy, I have toiled incessantly for
days and days, for years and years. For her I would wil-
lingly die, or worse — live for ever. Her I love truly as my
own creature, as the life of my art-life, my soul's creation.
See how beautiful, how perfe<5t she is ; does she not merit my
love and devotion ? How dare you hint that I would hurt
her or do her evil ? May God cast me into the blackest pit
He has made if I would do one thing that might be painful to
her ; and that scar — well, it was necessary to her existence.
Mr. Harte, you have disappointed me woefully. I thought
you a man of education, of sense, and amenable to argument ;
it appears that you are eaten up by your own conceit, and
will believe in nothing but that which is hammered into your
own thick skull. I will make you believe, just because you
are so obstinate. You have challenged me, and you must
take the consequences upon yourself."
Very calmly I answered him.
" And do you think that you alone love Promethia. I tell
you, I love her as dearly as ever woman was loved. I will
win her love if it is to be won, and then I will defy you. She
shall be mine. Coward, you may frighten women with
these stories ; you may terrify the weak, and by your strange
594 St. James's Magazine.
conduct and extraordinary words even daunt the strong
for a time, but only for a time. Truth must and shall
prevail, and God will not suffer the wicked to triumph.
What you hope to obtain from me by this imposture I
cannot imagine. But it shall not succeed. From your hands
I will rescue this unfortunate woman; from your cruelty,
Dr. Delgardo, she shall be free. I will fight you on your
own ground, and never will I rest until I have exposed
the villainous deceit by which you have attempted to
establish your hold over her, and destroy her purity, her
chastity, the noble nature which has been bestowed upon
her as the fit inspirer of so fair a person."
As I grew more and more excited, I could not help
noticing that he became calm and composed. My words
did not outwardly agitate him, on the contrary, he seemed
in no way surprised by the outburst of passionate reproach,
and stood silent when I concluded, apparently considering
what answer he should give to my denunciation.
" Mr. Harte," he commenced, speaking deliberately, " I
am not surprised at what you have told me. I expected
you would be unable to resist my woman, though not one
of God's creatures seem to have been able to fascinate you
permanently. I could not let you marry Promethia now,
for a reason you will know before long, otherwise it is possible
I should have been agreeable. If I had seen reason to trust
you with her, who knows what might have happened. You
are a fine, strong, healthy man, and the mixture of your
blood with hers would have enabled me to carry my projeft
a little further, without the additional labour and the fear of
failure, which I must admit hangs over me even now. You
would have done very well for her husband. But now this
cannot be. I am sorry if your passion is deep. I hope
Promethia does not return it, for I should feel bound to
make her happy at any cost. She is my first consideration,
though you are so anxious to rescue her from my cruelty.
You still doubt me I can see. I should not mind your
words, if your sense had been impressed, but it has not.
Wait here a few moments, and I will show you the model
from which I made the being you love."
I started back and threw up my hands in horror. At the
Promethia. 595
mention of the model, the scene of the night before, and
then the one in the haunted house came back to me and
thrilled me with fearsome sensations. I was standing now
before Promethia, stretched on the bed as the model had
been on the tressel. The likeness had not come upon me
forcibly until that moment, though I had seen it plainly
enough from my dark hiding place the previous night. Now
it was clear, distinft, the features were the same, the
form identical, the very hue of the flesh and the quality
and colour of the hair perfectly alike in everything, but
that the hair of the model had a dead look about it, while
Promethia's bore all the fresh and charming lustre of life
and youth on its wavy length. But the two were so com-
pletely similar, that place before me the model animated
and I should not have known it from Promethia as she lay
in repose at this moment. Then, as the thought of the first
time I had seen that model of waxen perfection came before
me and grew on me, a thrill of terror commenced to run
through my frame. I suddenly recollected the fearful thing
that had risen against me, and my hair stood on end, and
I felt a cold sweat breaking out on my limbs. It was a
moment of fear and danger. I felt I was giving way before
him, the dodtor ; I was being overcome, I was failing in
head and limb, but as the memory of this horror rose I was
no longer master of my own thoughts or actions. Half I
fancied I could see the horrible outline of its features, half
I fancied it about to rise before me, in all its fearful
grandeur and awful strangeness. Was it not about to creep
towards me as before ? Again I looked on Promethia sleep-
ing there so calmly, lying as the model lay, and I dreaded
lest the awful Presence should crawl up from the other side
of the bed, and stretch out its terrors towards me across
her form. As I gazed intensely at her, and then at the wall
above, the dread became stronger and stronger, while the
doctor seemed himself to grow something terrible, and to
assume a strange form and aspe(5t different to anything I
had ever seen in man. Human nature could not endure this
very long. I felt I must faint away, as I had done then. My
head was going, my legs giving way beneath me, no effort 011
my part could be made ; the terror of the situation was too
596 St. jfames's Magazine.
great. I should have sunk to earth and lost consciousness.
The swoon was upon me. Suddenly, Dr. Delgardo placed
his hand on my brow. Slight as the contadt was, it com-
pletely dispelled my fear. Vanished in a moment the idea
of the horror, the image, everything. A power seemed to
pass from his fingers through my whole body. I stood up
firm and self-possessed, the feeling of cold disappeared, the
thrill of terror vanished. I was myself: calm and fearless,
and I looked round at him and demanded —
" Dodlor, what is the meaning of playing with my health
in this way ? Why do you try to overcome my bold nature —
my natural fearlessness, by acting on me with the fear of
horrors which are not real ? You seem to me to know
everything about me and my coming here. Now once for
all, tell me why you are doing this to me, and make an end
of it ? I am resolved to be free from your influence. I shall
leave your house to-morrow, and with Promethia."
" Mr. Harte, I am sorry to tell you you have but yourself
to thank for any of these unpleasantnesses. You introduced
the conversation which led to the present result ; you like to
doubt my word as a gentleman and a man of honour, and I
am only anxious to convince you that everything I have said
is true. Will you give up the enquiry ? Will you be content
to leave Promethia as you found her."
" Never," replied I, flashing up again. " For her sake I
will know the truth, and you shall tell it to me if I have to
face a thousand deaths — a thousand of such spedtres. Come
and do your worst on me. I am prepared for you."
I stood with my back to Promethia, to escape the dreadful
look of the wall above her, which, notwithstanding all my
efforts, still made me think of the horrible thing, and the
fear of seeing it and its terrifying features rise up there
again. With my back to the wall I was less frightened.
He looked me steadily in the face.
"Thrice you have defied me, and courted your fate.
Thrice you have said to me the bitterest words that man
can speak to man. Upon your head be the result. Come ! "
He stepped towards me as he spoke, and passing his hand
behind my back, drew the covers up again over the sleeping
woman. Then he extinguished the gas, and bade her good
Promcthia. 597
night with a cold kiss on the forehead. Even in her sleep,
deep as it had been all along, she seemed to feel it, and her
features smiled at the touch. I would have given much to
salute her likewise, and see the result, but I forebore, and
stood awaiting his desire.
" Now, Mr. Harte, if you please we will go at once. It
is late, and you may need sleep after to-night."
He moved towards the edge of the carpet, which was a
Turkey, and only covered the centre of the floor. He
stooped down, and I saw a trap-door spring up as I had
seen it do the previous night.
" Down here," he said. " Be careful how you follow me."
I hesitated a moment. What was he going to do with me
down that trap? Would he ever let me come up again
alive ? " Bah," I thought ; " afraid of this man, for shame."
And neither fearing him nor the devil, who I began to believe
was in some way his master, down I went after him, and the
trap closed above our heads.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE DOCTOR'S REASONS.
We descended a step ladder. When his feet reached the
ground, I felt his hand stretched out to steady me as I
alighted. It was pitch dark, but instindt guided me down,
and I was soon standing by his side. We were in a narrow
passage, to all appearance built between two walls, for I felt
bricks on either side as my hand came in contadt with the
surface. He guided me carefully, holding my skirt until we
emerged as if through a solid wall into a passage opposite
the iron staircase I have mentioned before ; there was a gas
lamp burning close at hand, and I looked back to see the
direction in which we had come ; but the wall behind us had
closed, and there was no trace of door or orifice of any kind.
I was rather astonished, but thought it best not to express
598 5/. James's Magazine.
my wonder and follow him, as he prepared to descend the
spiral stairs.
" Be careful how you step on," he said, "you must twist
your body round, and slide vour feet on to the ledge and then
here."
As he spoke he made his way on to the stairs in a curious
manner.
It was necessary to lie along a sort of iron railing and
give your body a twist over it, when, if you were very careful,
your feet came on to the narrow stair and yon could descend
at your leisure.
I imitated his movements as closely as possible, but in
rolling over should have slipped had he not steadied my feet
As they swung down. Once on the stairs it was like
descending a sharply twisted spiral ladder, very steep and
narrow and with slippery steps.
It appeared a long, long way to the bottom of the house,
whither Dr. Delgardo was apparently bound. He went
before me in silence, and I had enough to do to steady my
footsteps in the descent. At last, when the gloom was
deepening, as we got farther and farther from the gas light
on the little landing we had left above, and after we had
passed several other landings, all accessible in the same difficult
manner and but ill lighted, he warned me that we had
arrived at the foot of the stair, and the next moment I was
standing beside him on the stones. He struck a match and
lit a lamp in a niche, and then I saw our surroundings
plainly enough. We had arrived in a long and wide passage,
which seemed to form a main thoroughfare to the basement
of the house. The walls were whitewashed, the ceiling
clean, and the floor of flag stones. There were several
doors visible to right and left, but the gleam of the lamp did
. not extend very far in either direction, consequently I could not
form an idea of the adtual extent of this region, or the number
of rooms or passages opening out from it. The dcxStor did
not give me .very long to look about, but marched me off to
the right, and made no pause until he unlocked a door
which appeared to have been recently painted, but the
surface of which was quite dry and free from smell. He
went in first and motioned me to follow. I did so, but
Promethia. 599
stood near the threshold until he had lighted the single gas-
lamp with which the room was furnished. It was fitted up
like an anatomical museum, with cases containing glass
specimen bottles and boxes around the walls. There was a
large table in the middle of the room, and in one corner I
noticed a long object lying covered up with a green baize
cloth. To this the dodtor directed my attention.
" I am first of all going to show you, Mr. Harte," he
began, in a tone from which all emotion was absent, " the
model from which I made Promethia. I do not believe that
the first man was made right off without some cast or
likeness of him having been designed ; but this is a matter of
idea. Of course, we cannot tell how the Creator works. Some
people believe in Darwin's theory. Everything was a blank
and a void, and light coming in upon the world caused the
trees to grow, and from slow growth rapid growth sprang
forth, and from rapid growth motion and independent life. It
is a pretty idea, and I do not see why it should not be true ;
but it does not harmonise with the Bible, and I like to
believe my Bible. When God made man out of the dust of
the ground he must have had some model. The Bible says he
made man in His own image ; but I should not feel at all dis-
posed to think that this means man possesses any similitude
to his God, for how can a spirit have form and substance ?
These are theories which require a good deal of discussion
before, even for one's own comfort, one can arrive at a
satisfactory conclusion : we will leave them until another
occasion if you please. I mentioned the subject merely to
account to you for the necessity of this model ; look at it, and
tell me candidly whether you think the design was a good
one."
As he finished he stepped up to the thing lying beneath the
green baize and displayed to me the waxen model I had
already seen upon two occasions ; I had no doubt it was the
same one.
It lay on the tressel perfectly unaltered, in form, position,
or appearance, since I had seen it last, and the waxen
features were as life-like as ever in the pale glow of the gas
light ; he went up to it closely, he passed his hand over the
features and swept aside some little stray hairs which had
600 St. James's Magazine.
got in the way, and then he motioned to me to come near
and examine the thing for my own satisfaction, but there
was no need for me to do so for I knew it well enough, and
I confess to having had a strange feeling of dread of this model.
I could not but remember the circumstances under which
I had first seen it, and I said ;
" That is certainly a very interesting work of art and
uncommonly like Promethia ? but why you should show it to
me now, I don't know, and I am quite satisfied to contemplate
it at a distance. Do you attribute any special merit to the
model ; because, although I do not remember ever having
seen one so good, I have no doubt there are plenty of men
who could beat that as a work of art, a perfedt imitation of
the human figure."
" Mr. Harte ! Mr. Harte ! " exclaimed the doctor, bitterly,
" you have the worst of all vices, an unreasoning scepticism.
If I made that model rise up before your face and move
about instindt with life, would you believe me then ? "
" I should feel far more inclined to doubt my own senses.
I only credit the best and most able of men with certain
powers. I know well that some men have pushed their powers
very far indeed, and have capabilities of which ordinary
individuals are but little aware. I know that there are many
conjuring tricks which pass in the world, and especially in my
native land, for the adlions of spirits, and I have heard of
the appearance of life being imparted to inanimate objects
by the skilful use of certain appliances. You may be able
to deceive me ; but I shall rather credit my own want of dis-
cernment than your extraordinary power over life and
death."
11 Very well, then I shall not make that figure rise. You
see, however, and you cannot deny, the wonderful likeness
to Promethia. I tell you I made her from that model. Now
let me see what are your ideas on life, and how do you
imagine man took his origin ? "
"Candidly, I am scarcely competent to discuss the
question with you on equal terms, because you have studied
the subject and I have never given any special attention to
it. I believe life to be a subtle essence, the diredt gift of God
to the organism of man ; that is about the simplest definition
Promethia. 601
of life that I know, and I think it is one generally accepted
by civilized men."
" But that assumes that you have man ready to hand, a
frame ready for the reception of the living principle. You
credit God with making that frame ? "
" Yes ; He has said so. It is impossible for a man to under-
stand his own economy ; Nature's workings are so wonderful
that they are nearly all beyond his comprehension, and the
mystery of life is perhaps the least accessible of all."
" I say you are entirely in error; life is as simple as any
other natural phenomena, if you look at it aright. It was not,
however, absolutely necessary for me to create life anew, for
it already existed in various forms. My objedl was, to place
within a frame of my own construction, the adtive living
principle, pure and strong, as it was within the breast of the
first of our fathers. Now, listen attentively, and do not
imagine, if you cannot believe or understand me, that what I
am telling you is not true, because I am presently going to
prove it to you; it is always necessary to explain an
experiment before making it. Is not such the practice in
most schools of philosophy and science ? "
" You certainly have precedents for such a course," I
returned, resolved to hear all he had to say, no matter how
absurd or strange it appeared to me. I began to think that
he might divulge something useful to me, and for Prome-
thia's sake I was anxious to learn the secret of her presence
in the establishment.
" Well, then, let me explain to you that the existence of
life in animated forms is not due to any special qualification
of the form for the reception of life, but to the fadt that
matter in a certain condition becomes existent with life in
it. If you place a mass of matter under the necessary
conditions it will live of itself, without the slightest need
for any encouragement from exterior substances ; or if these
conditions cannot be actually attained, they must be approx-
imated to, and the necessary additions made from without.
I had, then, to find out these conditions, and to establish
them in the form I was desirous of animating."
" Yes," I returned, mechanically.
.- - , r • r Digitized by VjOOQIc . _
" Now, for the formation of a man or woman a special
vol. i. 42
602 St. James's Magazine.
class of work is needed. Flesh has certain peculiarities of
organization, so has bone, and hair, and nail, and such like.
These had all to be learnt ; many and many an experiment,
and many and many a failure had to be recorded before my
knowledge on these points became perfedt. But once I
had conquered these secrets from Nature, the rest became
easy enough."
" You forget," said I, interrupting him, as the idea flashed
across my mind, " that you have omitted the most impor-
tant of all the organisms — the blood, which is the life."
His brow grew dark, his lips closed with a cruel deter-
mination, and he looked positively awful as he answered
me.
" I never forget that. You will see how that is provided
for later. It is the most important element in success, as
you very justly observe, and in the experiment you are pre-
sently to witness you shall be entrusted with the share of
labour relating to that item in our work."
His words and the looks which accompanied them made
me feel very ill at ease, but I remained silent while he
continued thus : —
" These secrets discovered, it was next my duty to find
out the most appropriate forms for strength and beauty,
my objedt being, as I explained to you when we were in the
dining-room, to make a being above man in many of his
capabilities. Then I was obliged to pursue a long course
of most painful study."
11 Painful to your vidtims, I suppose you mean. You
practice vivisection, doubtless, to a large extent."
" Yes, yes ; you are right. I was compelled to find out
Nature in the places in which she had hidden herself. It
was useless looking for the external muscles in the interior
of a piece of flesh, and also it was in vain to try and discover
the tension and construction, in stridt proportion and har-
mony, of the clothing of the bones and their adjacent liga-
ments by merely taking in hand the consideration of the
outward portions of the frame. I had to cut through many
and many a fair arm and many and many a beautiful hand
before I could understand that wonderful mechanism by
means of which the prehensile organ clasps a thing with
Promethia. 603
firmness, and extends it whither the mind directs. But I
never inflicted needless cruelty, and I often spared the
victims of my experiments. After all, the amount of suffer-
ing a creature undergoes depends principally on its capa-
bility for bearing pain, and as my experiments were generally
performed on the animal most capable of endurance, I
minimised the suffering I inflicted."
" May I ask the name of the animal you selected for such
experiment s."
" Man, of course. I vivisected men and women. They
make much better subjects than cats and dogs, I assure you,
though I have sometimes used the inferior creatures when
I wanted to find out something they could tell me better
than their superiors. Man is of all animals the most expe-
rimentally instructive. You see, too, he came nearer the
organism a knowledge of which I was anxious to obtain.
It was of his formation I had to learn, and of course his
flesh could tell me best of itself of the nature of its possessor.
I think if the practice of vivisecting men and women had
been carried a little further, we should have had many more
positive results in medical discoveries than we have hitherto
obtained. I know an ACt of Parliament has recently put a
stop to vivisection, or* been passed with the intention of
making the public believe that that was the objeCt in view.
I know that Englishmen invariably strain at gnats and swal-
low camels, though in this case the gnats are cats, dogs, and
rabbits, and the camels grouse, partridges, and pheasants,
not forgetting Hurlingham and the pigeons. While shooting
and sporting are practised in England, it is a great absurdity
to talk about vivisection. The ACt of Parliament did not
frighten me. I have carried on my experiments since with
perfect immunity, and the human subjects I have used have
never yet found the means of either objecting to the opera-
tion, or complaining of it effectually afterwards. The fad
is, that in many cases I persuade them into an ecstatic
state, in which they imagine their submission to my knife is
a sacrifice for the good of the whole world, and vanity was
never yet without its martyrs. What man will objeCt to
perish even now for the grave of a martyr to science or
.•v
604 St. James's Magazine.
religion ? I managed to get my way, and never felt myself
at a loss for a subjedt."
" You are an avowed murderer, then."
" That is an ugly word ; but supposing it were correctly
applied to me, I could justify every action by this consider-
ation. The principal reason why murder is such a fearful
crime is, that you cannot give life, and, therefore, you must
not take it. Is it not admitted that the crime of larceny is
practically atoned for if you restore the objedt stolen, or its
value ? Well, if you take life and give life, your crime is
blotted out as it were. I never did murder my vidtims,
though ; I was too skilful for that. Sometimes they were
very ill afterwards, but they generally came round, and to
the end of their days will have the satisfaction of consider-
ing themselves noble martyrs to the cause of science and
the advancement of the generations of the future. I am
not fond of this branch of study. I hate inflidting pain ; but
look you here, Mr. Harte, and just consider this well. If a
man walks through the world, as you tell me you have done,
with an observant eye, you will see suffering and misery on
all sides. Who, think you, inflidts this upon man and
animated nature ? All true Christians admit that the evil
of the earth is the work, the will, the decree of God. You
may say that the evil is for good, that man must live by the
sweat of his brow here in order to prepare himself for and
earn the crown of immortality and glory in the world to
come. You may throw the whole burden of the suffering
of man at the feet of the Almighty. Well and good ; but if
God does this, why is not man to do so too ? Reasoning by
the lights He has given us, we do so to animals. We make
the dog and the horse our servants, and we train them in
many instances with the grossest barbarity, and treat them
with a cruelty which nothing but necessity could justify.
We all do these things and think none the worse of our-
selves for their sake. Only when the cruelty is perpetrated
before our eyes or under our noses do we revolt, and then
principally because the sight of pain is displeasing to us.
Well, why is man to be exempt from such treatment ? If
it has come to a time in which the effete race requires
revivification, from the introduction into its life of a new
Promethia. 605
creation, a fresh race of men and women, and if my studies
and works enable me to see my way clearly to the creation
of the race, and the introduction of the new vitality among
humanity as it now exists, am I not justified in sacrificing
a few men or women to the necessities of the creative
process ? You seem to shudder, and to have some doubts
about the force of my argument. It is the same one that
has always been advanced in defence of a deed which injures
the individual for the good of his neighbours. Upon that
principle Parliament a<5ted when it authorised the construc-
tion of the first railway. Upon this principle every advance
is made. Some must suffer that all may rejoice ; and really
people make a very great fuss over human life, for it only
has a certain market value. I could buy up a thousand
Chinamen for as much whisky — good, strong whisky only —
as would fill this room. Life is not so dear to everybody
as to make the taking of it the fearful crime you would have
it considered. I do not urge this as an apology for murder,
but as a plea in self-extenuation. I felt that I was justified
in destroying a whole generation of men if need be for the
purpose of making one, and yet I never did murder. I was
too skilful. Murder is a clumsy contrivance at the best of
times. Dead men tell very awkward tales, I can assure
you. No ; I have caused suffering, but never death inten-
tionally. These researches of which I have been speaking
led me, as you may imagine, into a domain as yet untrodden,
and I, having discovered the way to make the frame of man,
naturally set about testing the reality of my knowledge,
with the objedt I have told you. You noticed Promethia's
vast strength. I resolved that my creatures should never
know muscular weakness save from disease or the approach
6f decay. I determined that my creation should be strong
as the Biblical Samson, and accordingly Promethia is made
with muscles that would have suited Hercules. You have
noticed this."
While the dodtor had been discoursing thus, I was
entranced to listen to him, and whether it was the fascina-
tion of his manner, the convincing tone in which he spoke,
or the impressive nature of the surroundings I do not know,
but I felt he was convincing me against my better reason of
6o6 St. James's Magazine.
the truth of everything he was saying. I began to credit
him with the powers he claimed, and as my eye fell again
and again on the model, I could not help feeling an expec-
tation that it would presently rise and live and breathe,
a second Promethia. He was watching the effe<5t, I had
no doubt, but I could not help it, and when he paused to
await my answer, I was obliged to give the one which came
uppermost in my mind.
" Certainly, I have been much struck with the girl's
prodigious strength. I never saw a woman capable of such
exertion with so little strain ; indeed, I doubt if I ever saw
or heard of a woman who could do as much with even the
utmost effort of her nature."
" You might add, or man either. The power of her arm
would shatter your skull with one blow as you might break
a piece of glass. I have seen her smite four inches of
thickness of ice in twain with as little difficulty as I would
break a biscuit, and you yourself saw what her fingers could
do ; but that strength is inherent in every part of her con-
stitution."
" Wonderful, indeed," was all I could reply.
" It had been my intention to make a man at first," he
continued; "but upon reflection I concluded that a man
was not the more important of the two for my object. A
woman could at once be united with the existing race, and
before I tried the experiment further I could wait and see
if any good result came from my labour. Of course, a
man might also have married and become the subjedt of
my experiment, but it seemed to me that the woman was
the fairer experiment of the two, and then, perhaps, I was
influenced a little by this fa<5t, that, although several men
had attempted in different ages the manufacture of men,
they had never succeeded, and I could find no record of the
making of woman having been attempted. Perhaps the
woman was a possibility of accomplishment, and when
made would prove more pliable and easy of control than a
man. So I determined to make a woman, and I succeeded,
as you have seen. You would like to know where I got my
model from, but are you not aware that no true artist does
more than make his model subservient to the imagined
Promethia. 607
obje<5t. My first work was this model," he pointed to it as
he spoke ; " the perfection of that was rather copied from
my idea and conception of the creature I wanted than from
any creature I had actually seen. From that model I formed
my woman, and after endless labour she rose to life — pure,
beautiful, perfedt, and lovely — as you see her. Is there
aught that earth can show equal to Promethia in grace and
perfection? I say that this world holds not her equal
among the sons or daughters of men. There may be
qualities lacking in her brain, for that is but half expanded,
and there may be fairer faces and more exquisite individual
features ; but taking her as a whole, judging her by the fair
standard of mankind used by them when judging woman, is it
possible to conceive a being more fair, more worthy than
she is? Be just, be honest, be candid, Mr. Harte, and say
whether I have over-praised the work of my hands. You,
even you, who boasted that no woman ever lived who could
move your heart to real passion, would willingly fall down
at her feet and worship, and I who long since bade adieu
to passion cannot keep my head as free from thoughts that
should never arise there for her as I could wish. Oh, Mr.
Harte ! the woman I have made is fairer than the fairest of
her sex, and she will give renewed life and vigour and energy
to the decaying strength of the races of men."
I did not answer him. I simply stared at him in blank
amazement. He seemed to have finished all he had to say,
drew the baize cloth once more over the model, and was
making his way tothe door when it opened slowly, and the
woman who called herself his wife entered, clad in a loose
robe and pale as a new-made corpse.
CHAPTER XXVII.
AN INTERFERENCE ON MY BEHALF.
" I have come in time," she said to us both, and then
turning to me, " Mr. Harte, go while you iiave yet the
chance."
Oo8 67. James s Magazine.
For the first moment the Doctor and myself were too
much astonished to aft or speak. The visitor had taken us
completely by surprise. At that hour of the night, and in
that situation, I should have as soon expected to see a ghost
as a woman, and, perhaps, to tell the truth, the former
would have frightened me less than the latter. The Doctor
recovered his self-possession first, and stood forward.
" Madame," he said, somewhat sternly, " What is the
meaning of this intrusion and extraordinary speech ?"
" I have no wish to have words with you," was her reply,
" Mr. Harte is our guest. Mr. Harte must not be treated
as you treat others, and I came to warn him. Thank God,
I am in time ! "
I could see an angry expression overcasting the face of
Dr. Delgardo. He was not accustomed to this species
of interference with his will. The lady was perfe&ly self-
possessed, however, and did not shew any inclination to
withdraw, as he seemed anxious she should do. Her eyes
watched us both. Her expression was composed.
" Perhaps you will retire," said the Doctor, after a little
time. " We are busy, and it is late. Our labour cannot
interest you, and it is not seemly for you to be about the
house at this hour of the night. Go to your room ! "
" Not till our guest is safe. I am here to save him. Oh,
Mr. Harte, are you so blind, so infatuated, that you cannot
see the fate to which you are hurrying. That man, though
he is my husband, I say it, is merciless, merciless, merciless."
" Thank you," he said, with a smile. " If you have any
complaints to make of my conduct, you can do so to your
relatives. Leave us."
" I will not. You have denied me to Mr. Harte. You
have kept me away from your side when he was with you,
lest I should reveal to him some truths unpleasant to you —
fatal to your future. You are preparing his doom, and I
will not suffer it in silence. You have done enough of evil
O, my husband ! "
There was in her tone appeal and despair. That she
loved the man to whom she spoke, it would have been
difficult to doubt, and it was evident that he had treated her
coldly, if not cruelly. She did not seem to fear him, but
Promethia. 609
trembled on my account. Her manner was determined, and
he seemed somewhat awed by it, as he responded to her
words.
" Mrs. Delgardo, since you choose to call yourself by my
name, I am infinitely obliged by your good opinion, and we
are always glad to see you, but at present Mr. Harte and
myself are discussing grave scientific questions, which are
hardly suited to the presence of ladies. We wish to continue
our occupation. It is neither ladylike nor proper for you to
intrude on us thus. Please say ' good night,' and retire."
His tone was respectful, though severe. Observing him
closely, and saying nothing myself, I could read that he
loved this woman at the bottom of his heart, though he was
so harsh to her. Perhaps his manner was assumed for some
special obje<5t.
She walked right up to him without the least hesitation in
her manner, and laid one hand on his shoulder, while the
other touched his cheek.
" Magnus, be a little kind to me. Spare this once. I do
so want to be your own again ; and this man, have pity on
him. This one victim might be mine, and then you would
return to me. Husband, darling, if once you conquer this
evil disposition by a noble self-control, you will return to me,
I know you will."
I caught these words though they were rather whispered
to his ear than uttered aloud, and I carefully watched his
visage to see what effeft her pleading produced. They were
standing up, not far from the door, he, with his back to the
corner in which the model lay, and she in front of him, while
I leaned against one of the glass cases at the side of the
room. She looked very gentle and quiet as she prayed to
him. Would he yield ? I wondered and waited, feeling not
a little anxious as to the fate awaiting me if her entreaties
failed. I had some, but not much confidence left in my
power to proteft myself.
He put her from him very gently.
" My love, you are mistaken in speaking thus. Mr. Harte
is quite safe ; he is a sceptic. He does not even believe I
made Promethia."
" Ah, is that strange," she answered, " did I, do I, believe
610 St. James's Magazine.
it now ? Often I look on that woman, the cause of all my
misery, and wonder if it be possible that she has any but a
human origin ; then I credit her with being a child of the
dung-hill, a wretch raised by you for your evil purposes "
He stopped her with his hand on her mouth.
" Hush, hush; whatever sins I may have sinned, I have
never been false to you. I did deny you, but that was for
your own sake. Yes, Mr. Harte," he continued, turning to
me, " this lady is my wife. She went mad, she ran away
from me, and I could find her nowhere. She told me she
was with her friends, and all the while she had been starving
herself, and sitting opposite a coffin which she had bought
for her own burial. She was starving herself to death. I
do not know how, but you brought her back. I denied her
because, because she was mad then, and it was painful to
her to be known as what she is, but she is my wife, and I
am not ashamed of her. Am I, Constantia ? "
He drew her to him again as he said this, and presented
her to me as though making a formal introduction. She
inclined to me with a graceful bow, and replied :
" No, husband, never that. We were so happy then,
before she came. Oh, if you would but forget that mon-
strous woman, that horror, that fearful thing, and be to me
as you once were, I should be, oh, so happy. If you have
•been so true, what need is there to keep her here."
" Tell me," he returned, seeming wholly to ignore my
presence again, " Do you believe I was her creator? Wife,
you are not mad now, look on me, tell me the truth as it is
in your mind. What do you really think the beautiful being
I call € Promethia ' is ? "
" Oh, don't ask me," she said, wildly, springing away
from him. " You well know the curse she has cast on me.
Blighting words, scorching heats, tempests, whirlwinds,
explosions, nay, every and all the evils that earth or heaven
can heap on poor humanity, are nothing to the terror of her
glance. Oh, husband, what have you done ? At times I
doubt the thing is possible, but then your word, her existence,
the model, and other things, all rise before me as so many
dreadful evidences of your work, your sin. Oh, God, you
have made a monster, and you love it. Husband, husband,
Promethia. 611
let me forget, let me forget, let me forget, or I shall go
mad, or worse, with the terror of her being/'
"There, Mr. Harte," said he, addressing me with a
suddenness which made me start, " is my wife's testimony
sufficient for you. You cannot dispute with a lady."
" It depends," I returned, but he stopped me.
" Wait, Mr. Harte ; my wife will tell you all she knows
about Promethia, I have no doubt. I am not sorry now
she came here. Constantia, will you speak, since you are
so anxious to save him from some imaginary fate, and if he
but believes in my work, he will be safe, you know."
" I have told him ; he knows. What remains to be said.
That Promethia is a demon, a terror, a wretched thing, to
be avoided like a pestilence. Alas, he will not believe it,
for he loves her, and love sees nothing but the fairness of
the features. At least, so you used to tell me," and she
concluded with a sigh.
"And since when have I learnt to love you less, darling,"
he replied, taking her hand and drawing her towards him ;
" you are my wife. Believe me, I am not unmoved by your
love. You mistake, as you have always done, my motives.
Promethia is only to me as a child."
She looked up at him, she gazed into his eyes with an
intense earnestness, she held his hand and stood a little way
off looking up to him as if through his eyes she would read
his soul and learn the hidden secrets of his marvellous deep
nature. Long and eager was her gaze, and then, with a
wild scream, she seemed to realize he had spoken the
truth, and threw herself on his breast. He folded his arms
around her and leant his head down on her shoulder with
all- tenderness. Surely this was not a man of whom one
need be afraid. Neither was he cruel and cold-blooded as
he had represented himself to be. I watched them in
silence and was touched by the love and affe<5tion exchanged
between them.
Their embrace ended in a fond kiss. The dodtor seemed
to think some apology due to me and explained ;
" We have not been honeymooning for a long time, Mr.
Harte, so you will forgive us. She is a little inclined to be
jealous. Suppose, Conny, I was jealous of you now? "
6iz St. James's Magazine.
He spoke lightly and with a smile. She clung to him, a
bright and happy smile on her face, her lips parted with
a cheerful expression, and all the glow of youth returning to
her features ; love beamed from eyes and lips and cheeks,
and her hand clasped his with a pressure of gentle meaning.
I no longer wondered at all she had said to me. She loved
him passionately, he loved her too at that moment whatever
their estrangement might have been, I was glad to see her
happy once more, for I must confess to having pitied her,
and I also saw my way smoothed to Promethia, for if the
dodtor had really no intentions with reference to her why
should he refuse to give the beautiful woman into my care if
convinced of my love ?
The pair did not long remain in their endearing attitude.
The doctor motioned to his wife to leave him, saying: —
" And now, Constantia, that you feel happy again, leave
me and Mr. Harte to pursue our studies together."
His words seemed to recall to her the obje<5t of her
presence in the room. Her expression altered, and her
hands worked nervously together. She drew away from
him a little, but showed no signs of an intention to obey his
command. It was evident she feared to leave us alone.
" Husband ! " she said, " it is very late, and you must be
weary ; leave this place for to-night, and come to bed."
" Madame, you forget yourself. Since when has my
command ceased to be your law. Will you let Mr. Harte
take away with him so bad an idea of the behaviour of
English wives ? "
He concluded his speech in a lighter tone than he
commenced, and again motioned her towards the door.
She did not seem at all pleased with the attempted
pleasantry. Her intentions were evidently in earnest, and
nothing but success in separating us would do her good.
Was I to take her help in this crisis ? I felt inclined to
interrupt her, but at that moment something pressed too
heavily on me, and I was constrained to listen without
interference.
" Do grant my request for once, Magnus," she said.
" Mr. Harte can come again to-morrow, or whenever you
Ulje. I fear for him to-night. Oh, I know you mean him
Promethia. 613
evil. I have seen it in your eye, I have felt it in your ways
and movements. I know there is evil moving forward, and
perhaps he is to be your last vidtim. Pause before you com-
mit yet another crime. Is the pursuit of this project so im-
portant ? must you for this vanity sacrifice your soul yet
again ? Hear me, Magnus, ere it is too late ? "
" Hush," he said, angrily, " what nonsense is this. I
must take you back if you will not go ; why should I injure
Mr. Harte ? Is he not our guest and our friend, and did he
not bring you back, a thing for which I shall be eternally
grateful to him.,,
" Ah, you cannot deceive me, I see it in your eyes ; Mr.
Harte, my husband is dangerous to you, save yourself by
flight. Away ! away ! "
She turned to me with sudden energy of manner, and
pointed to the door with an outstretched hand.
" Mrs. Delgardo," I began, but the dodtor interrupted
me.
" Constantia, I will not stand this ; I brought Mr. Harte
here to tell him about Promethia. He will not believe that I
was her maker. I am anxious to convince him of the fadt,
why should he fear me ? And why should you attempt to
stand between us ; he has no fear of me, I assure you."
" No fear. Then he does not know you. But whether he
fears you or not, I must not leave you alone with him
to-night ; was it not the same with her ? "
" Constantia," he said, in a harsh voice which seemed to
go through her, " enough of this. I am not accountable to
you for my adtions, and I will not listen to your imaginary
evils of other people. Go to bed. Do you hear me ? "
She stood upright for a moment, and then fell on her
knees at his feet while she clasped her hands together, and
wrung them before him. Her tone was one of piteous
entreaty.
" Oh ! do not do this thing. Anything but this. If you
want my heart's blood, husband, take it, and I will welcome
death at your hands. If you need my ears or my eyes " (I
started at the word " ears," recolledting how mine had been
attacked), " take them ; and oh, let me die when you have ^ <
done your will. But he is under our roof, and for him y^j^^
\
614 St. James's Magazine.
are more than answerable, and his blood will be required at
your hand ten thousand times. Oh ! consider what it will
be for you. The thing must be known, and the world will
set a mark on your brow — a price upon your head. But
that is not the worst. God who dwells above has com-
manded against this thing. Oh, husband, you sinned once
through evil machination and vanity. Pride was your
stumbling-block. You would go on, on, on, regardless of
the consequences, and your work was crowned with a
miserable, a monstrous, a hideous, and unnatural success.
What did that avail you ? Nothing. Now you would sin
yet again, and for no reason. Oh, husband, if you must do
this thing, let me be the vidtim of your vanity, and not him.
But let me turn you from your wickedness. Kneel to God
for pardon. Cast aside your pride. Let your heart be
humble. Think no more of this project, wilder even than
the other. Destroy that horrid thing, and let us live
together for the future with nothing between us. As you
love me, as you hope for my love, here and hereafter, listen
to my prayer, and be merciful to me and yourself."
He listened, but there was no sign of attention or acquies-
cence, only he stooped over her and touched her head with
his fingers.
" My wife, you are talking of what you know nothing.
Have I ever turned aside from my labour, terrified by phan-
tasmal fears ? Do you think I shall do so now, even at the
entreaty of the woman I love. The welfare of thousands
may depend on my adtions, my constancy to their cause,
and dare I sacrifice it for your caprice ? Oh, Constantia,
many and many a man has cast away the birthright of
nobility, the power of soul, the grandeur of the achievement
of the ransom of his brethren *for such a smile as thine, but
in my heart there is no such weakness. My love is strong,
but the hold of the labour I have undertaken to accomplish
ife upon me stronger, and for its sake I must refuse you."
" Nay, nay, Magnus," she returned, still kneeling. " There
are some duties which surpass those of our imagination, and
your idea is a purely imaginary one. Who ever did this
thing before ? Or where will you find the sandtion of God
" - the labour you boast of ? Oh, my husband, do not be so
Promethia.
obdurate, so infatuated with your own pride, with the con-
ception of your own weakness, with the labour of your own
hands. These things are deceitful. Religion teaches us so.
You once loved God with a true heart, and you cannot have
forgotten Him ; remember husband, He will never forget
you."
" My darling," he said, suddenly becoming all tenderness
again, and raising her gently from thq ground, till she stood
on a level with him, " you mistake these things. God does
not come down through the blue vault of the sky and whisper
into each man's ear, ' This shalt thou do, and this shalt thou
avoid,' but to each man he gives certain talents and powers,
and for the exercise of those talents and powers He will call
upon his creatures to account faithfully. To me He has
given the knowledge of life, and that knowledge I am bound
to use."
" Yes, yes, but for good ; only for good, husband. If a
poor man were dying, and you saved him, you would have
done an aft pleasing to the Lord ; but murder and bloodshed
are not of these things ; and for the life you destroy you
must answer to the Most High."
" And for the life I create ? "
" Oh, no, not again, again. You cannot, you will not do
so any more. As I think of it, I feel all my madness coming
over me as before. Husband, I love you so much, am not I
enough for your love and your duty. Can you not live for
me only ? "
" Man was made for more than a woman's slave."
" But if you must then pursue this strange career, at least
spare Mr. Harte. Do not think I care for him more than
for another ; but it is for you, for you, lest evil come of it to
you. I love you so much. Oh, let him go free, and spare
his life for my sake." j/^M
" There, Mr. Harte, see what a champion you have," said "s
he to me, with a sneer. *../
I could stand it no longer ; my blood was in a wild state
of emotion ; my heart beat violently, and my tongue was
suddenly loosened as my feelings impelled me to speak.
I sprang forward, and stood between therhb.A
" Enough of this nonsense," I said, rudely; " this is mere
616 St. James's Magazine.
talk. If you, Dr. Delgardo, can show me anything wonderful,
do so. And for you, madame, I am thankful for your kindiy
interference on my behalf; but I should be very sorry to
think you quarrelled with your husband on my account ; and
I assure you I am sufficiently strong to be able to hold my
own against all the machinations of a dozen such men
as he."
Why did he turn away with that quiet, sneering smile,
which he in vain tried to hide ? She placed her hand on my
arm, and said gently, " You are too confident ; you will learn
not to despise a woman when it is too late."
" Excuse me, I do not despise you ; on the contrary, I am
very thankful to you for the friendly interest you show in
me ; but I am not the sort of man to be terrified by words
merely. Let this awful husband of yours — this ogre, this
monster of humanity, try it on with me, that is all, and he
will soon find an American is a match for a dozen do<5tors.
I defy him boldly to do his worst, so there. "
The doctor set his foot firmly opposite mine.
" Twice before, and now for the third time you have defied
my power, Mr. Harte. You are now mine. Woman, go ! "
His tone to her was that of a brute. His eyes flashed a
dismal light on her as she cowered before him. He seemed
to brook no reply — no further expostulation. She trembled
as she drew away from him. She looked as if eager to
plead further, or to give me a further warning, but I turned
away from her, and he motioned to her to go. She shrunk
back — she cowered from before his threatening aspect, and
I dared not interfere without showing my own weakness.
I let him drive her forth into the passage ; and yet as she
passed along, and bid good night to him, I am sure I heard
the meeting of lips, and they parted as fond and affectionate
husband and wife,
" And now, Mr. Harte, that we have got rid of my wife,
who, by-the-way, seems to have taken a wonderful fancy to
you. Shall we go into my working-room at once ? "
" Is there not something else to show me here ? "
" Oh, yes, of course ; I forgot the cabinet. Look here,
this is very interesting, especially if you are a stranger to
such work." oTOOgie
Proniethia. 617
He opened one of the cases at the side of the room, and
brought a flaming lamp near to it that I might have full
opportunity of inspecting the contents. It was, indeed, a
curious collection, this on which I now gazed, and one that
I should think no other living man ever possessed. The
cabinet was very large, and fitted with shelves which were
very deep and long, giving a surface of many feet on each shelf.
These spaces were occupied with models of every portion of
the human body, arms, legs, breasts, heads, feet, hands, lips,
eyes, noses. Every member of the frame of man or woman
was to be found in the set of models, and every individual
model, I do not care to particularise them more at length,
was executed with the same care as was the wonderful
waxen model I had first seen. The collection was very
interesting, for great labour and talent had been expended on
it, and the artist had succeeded to a wonderful degree of
perfection. Still, what the objeCt ofall this labour could be
it was not easy to decide. The doCtor explained to me : —
" You see it is not so easy to make a perfect leg or arm
from memory, and a living model often becomes restless. I
was obliged to go to work at these, and they cost me many
weary days, nay, years of labour. Then I had to seleCt the
most fitting forms for copy. You would be surprised if you
knew the difference which the slightest variation in the
shape of even so small a thing as a little finger, makes in the
entire frame. The human body is a fabric of the most
exquisite proportion. Look at those legs, for instance, do
you know that the setting of a muscle the eighth of an inch
too near the bone, would prevent the creature standing
ereCt. If you only consider this for a moment, you will be
surprised that I ever succeeded in making a frame that would
hold together, and yet you cannot find much fault with the
proportions of Promethia, can you ? "
Humouring his conceit to the full, I replied —
" Certainly, Promethia is everything perfect and beauti-
ful/'
" Do you see that case up at the top ? You will find two
hearts in there, respectively those of a man and a woman.
Some think there is very little difference between the hearts
of the sexes. There is no greater mistake. A woman's heart
vol. 1. 43
6i8 67. Janus s Magazine.
is very strangely different to a man's ; but you have not
sufficient anatomical knowledge to understand the variation.
Then you have livers. The liver is a most curious organ,
always, as you perhaps know, getting out of order, and to a
very large extent responsible for half the mischief men do.
A liver out of order is a terrible thing in a human system."
Speaking thus, he was turning over the different models,
and showing them to me, and he went on discoursing about
their peculiar functions, and their relative importance to the
human economy.
" You see a head now, for instance, that head with the
bronze colored hair, that was manufactured solely for the
purpose of trying an experiment in hair. I thought to
myself the color of hair is usually the same, and I am tired
of seeing blacks and browns, and straw color, and golden.
I will try a new color. I made red hair and blue hair, would
you like to see some ? I have hair of every color, not dyed,
but fresh and fair, as if it actually grew on a man's head.
You cannot but have admired Promethia's hair."
" I have, indeed ; I never saw more beautiful hair in mv
life."
" Well, look at this."
He opened a drawer as he spoke, and produced a scalp
made in wax, and adorned with a flowing wealth of hair,
colored a deep green. It was the most extraordinary thing
I had ever seen. I felt it and found that it had the usual
soft and silky feel of a woman's hair, and it showed a
tendency to curl at the ends, the color was that of an emerald
and the texture fine. He passed it through his fingers, and
asked me if I thought I should admire a girl with green hair
like that. I replied I thought not, and he put the thing back.
Then he showed me several other curiosities of a like nature.
It was really a singular colleftion, and I looked at it with
attention and pretended interest. I was anxious about the
end of all this, and that anxiety kept me from entering into
all he told me with a proper spirit. At last he appeared to
have exhausted all his models, and his flow of conversation
grew less voluble.
" Now, Mr. Harte," he said, " how is your appetite for
supper ? "
Protnethia. 619
This was a cheerful question.
" Pretty good, I think. What have you got to give me ? "
" A kind of Pollonius supper — cold meat and bread, and,
well, for drink, you shall name your own liquor from two."
" The cold meat is good enough, and for drink, beer will
suit me as well as any thing.' '
" Stay, Mr. Harte, the banquet to which I now invite you
is one of dread ; you are yourself the meat, and your blood
is the drink, enter and enjoy/ '
But as he said these words in a calm and unruffled voice,
with almost a smile on his face, and a half melo-dramatic
air, I thought he had at last gone quite out of his senses,
and not fearing a madman, I acceded to his invitation, and
passed through a door in the wall which he had suddenly
flung open.
To be continued.
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Love versus Learning.
[LAS, for the blight of my fancies !
Alas, for the fall of my pride !
I planned, in my girlish romances,
To be a philosopher's bride.
I pidhired him learned and witty,
The sage and the lover combined ;
Not scorning to say I was pretty,
Nor only adoring my mind.
No elderly, spectacled Mentor,
But one who would worship and woo :
Perhaps I might take an inventor,
Or even a poet would do.
And tender and gay and well-favoured
My fate overtook me at last :
I saw, and I heard, and I wavered ;
I smiled, and my freedom was past.
He promised to love me for ever,
He pleaded, and what could I say ?
I thought he must surely be clever,
For he was an Oxford M.A.
But now I begin to discover
My visions are fatally marred :
Perfection itself as a lover,
He's neither a sage nor a bard.
He's been through the usual knowledge,
And says it's a terrible bore ;
He formed his opinions at college,
Then why should he think any more.
Love versus Learning. 621
My logic he sets at defiance,
Declares that my Latin's no use,
And when I begin to talk science,
He calls me a dear little goose.
He says that my lips are too rosy
To speak in a language that's dead,
And all that is dismal and prosy,
Should fly from so sunny a head.
He scoffs at each grave occupation,
Turns everything off with a pun,
And says that his sole calculation
Is how to make two into one.
He says Mathematics may vary,
Geometry cease to be true,
But scorning the slightest vagary,
He still will continue to woo.
He says that the sun may stop adtion,
But he will not swerve from his course ;
My love is his law of attraction,
My smile, his centripetal force.
His levity's truly terrific,
And often I think we must part ;
But compliments so scientific
Recapture my fluttering heart.
Yet sometimes 'tis very confusing,
This conflidl of love and of lore :
But hark ! I must cease from my musing,
For that is his knock at the door !
C. C. W. Naden.
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Wagner in London.
[LTHOUGH the season of noble and polite society
in London is yet young, many events have already
contributed towards making it one of unusual
brilliancy ; one that will be remembered for many years to
come. It is by occurrences political, social, scientific, or
otherwise, that the spirit and tone of society is governed,
and those we allude to as having conveyed a cheerful and
lively character to the present London season are numerous
and various. But it is alone with one of these that we have
here to deal. The musical world has been startled by the
sonorous sound of future harmony. The musical public has
had placed before it the choicest works and specimens of
music based upon the new theory of harmony without
melody, and the English nation has been afforded an oppor-
tunity of judging whether the new style of art which has
been so generously planned, projected, and offered, through
the instrumentality and labour of a single individual, to
Germany, and has been as contemptuously treated by the
Teutonic race, will root out in this country the older
styles of the gentle art to which we are so much attached
and accustomed. Not only shall we hear these specimens
and examples of the new theory of the great German master
mind, but we have heard them to the best advantage ; Wagner
has conduced them in person, and many of his satellites have
taken part in their performance. The sojourn of Wagner in
London, therefore, makes the time seasonable to inquire
into the claims he lays to hero-worship, and to see what
manner of man he is, and what manner of music it is that he
so pertinaciously advocates and upholds.
William Richard Wagner (the first name being generally
Wagner in London. 623
omitted) was born at Leipzig in the year 1813, and has
become known to the world at large as a musician and
composer only within recent years. His father, who
was a police-attuary, he lost in early infancy, and his
mother, after but a short interval, renewed the connubial
state by allying herself with an aftor named Geyer.
The family then settled down at Dresden, and we may
safely assume that the occupation of the stepfather was the
means of awakening the artistic taste in young Wagner,
which at first he displayed by throwing off poetical effusions,
dramatic pieces, and the like. This was at the age of
eleven ; five years later, on returning to Leipzig, attending
there the Nicolai School, he took up music as his particular
study. His intuitive ambitious aspiration led him to com-
mence almost immediately the composition of great orches-
tral pieces without having the requisite amount of knowledge
of the theory of music. Fortunately for himself he dis-
covered, or was apprised of his mistake, and very wisely
gave up composing for the present, applying himself the
more diligently to the theory of his newly adopted art. In
1 83 1 he once more attempted composition, and this time
with more success. Two years later he composed at Wtirz-
burg his first opera, known as " Die drei Feen "; next year
he produced another opera, called " Liebes-verbot " ; and
both were attended with considerable success.
From this time up to the present Wagner has led a pecu-
liarly restless and roving kind of life, which in several
respe(5ts has been spiced with romance. After the com-
pletion of the two operas just named he was in turn
Director of the Theatres at Magdeburg, Konigsberg, and
Riga. He then visited Paris and London, making at the
latter place the acquaintance of Meyerbeer. Returning
again to his native land Wagner worked for a few years
quietly at his operas, producing " Rienzi," " Der fliegende
Hollander," " Tannhauser," and some minor works. The
Revolution of 1849 obliged him to flee from the country.
Going first to Weimar to bid his friend Liszt good-bye, he
went first to Paris, and finally to Ziirich. Here, we are
told, he lived in the greatest seclusion, and interested him-
self in nothing but music, labouring day after day to deduce
624 5/. J anus's Magazine.
from his own peculiar notions a theory which he could set
before the world as one worthy to supersede all old notions
and ideas, and their authors and masters. After nearly
half a lifetime of patient toil and work he has so far accom-
plished his task in that he has actually placed his theoretical
principles of music prominently before the world, but the
greatest difficulty of all is yet to be overcome, namely, to
induce people to believe in these new principles, to make
them see the falsity of the old theories, and generally
to persuade them to accept the " music of the future"
in preference to that of the past. How far he is likely to
succeed in this we shall presently see.
The present fame and reputation of Richard Wagner
rests not so much upon the appreciation with which his
works are generally received, as, perhaps, upon the pecu-
liarity of his musical doctrines and teachings. In this
country only three of his works have as yet found their
way upon the operatic stage, but they — t% Lohengrin,"
" Tannhauser," and " Der fliegende Hollander" (Flying
Dutchman) — have met with very great success. This
circumstance must not be regarded as a true criterion,
however, of Richard Wagner's music proper, for it is to
be borne in mind that, of all his works, they are the most
melodious, and, consequently, whatsoever admiration you
may bestow upon any of those works, does not constitute
you by any means a Wagnerian adherent in point of theory.
The first and all-permeating principle on which the " music
of the future " is based, absolutely excludes all distinctive
melody, it being held by the founder of the theory that the
true aim of every opera is to interpret and convey to the
mind of the auditor, with greater force and emphasis,
the fine and noble sentiments of some poetic effusion or
fable. In his view the opera has degenerated into a mere
series of ballads, strung together in a recognized conven-
tional order to suit the requirements of certain voices and
singers.
There is certainly a great amount of truth in this theory,
but Wagner has failed to carry it out into practical success ;
or, if he has done so to his own sat isfadlion— af'wey belie v§
c has— the theory is not one that can be accepted in its
Wagner in London. 625
entirety, and it is one which will never gain a permanent
standing in this country, nor, indeed, we may safely say, in
any other. Harmony, in truth, is a glorious thing, in which
every true musician thoroughly rejoices; but harmony alone
is of too serious and deep a character to entirely delight, and
it becomes monotonous, no matter how finely or gloriously
wrought out ; but once melody is interweaved with it, then
it is that our ears become appreciative and delighted. We
might liken harmony without melody, to a pie, or rather a
pie-dish, crusted over with the richest materials, but devoid
of any kind of fruit inside. The crust is, indeed, very nice,
and is neither insipid nor tasteless, yet, without the fruit,
it does not go down well ; there is a palpable want felt.
But taste the crust along with some good fruit, and you at
once perceive the difference and .the enjoyment, so far as
the eating of the pie is concerned, is complete. Fancy
what would have been the disgust of poor Jack Horner, if
he had found no plum in his pie to extra<5t when he had
put in his thumb. Exadlly in the same manner does melody
blend with harmony : the one is the plum, the other the
crust, and it is just as futile to try and persuade people
that harmony is more delightful by itself, as it is useless to
ask people to eat pie-crust alone. If there must be a
separation, it is the melody which must stand, just as in the
case of our analogy the plums can be only made use of
separately. It would, however, be useless to try and argue
out the point within the limits of this paper, as it would
involve a close and exhaustive investigation into the origin
and nature of music. In short, the solution of the argument
would rest solely upon the answer to the question, What is
music ? But this, surely, is not necessary, while, moreover,
it is almost safe to assume that, in regarding melody as
the chief component part of music, we have the majority
of music-lovers with us ; and on these terms, therefore,
we may proceed with our brief scrutiny of Wagner's
theory and works.
The subordination of the vocal part to the instrumental
portion of operatic work, is another prominent feature in
the new theory. Herr Wagner appears to have an idea
that the singers and songstresses of the present day arc
G26 St. James's Magazine.
made a great deal too much of, and that it is the orchestra
which should be looked to as the chief support of the opera.
It is to be feared that, in this respedt, the great master of
the " Music of the Future," will find but scant sympathy in
this country at least, as it is Nature's own music — the very
original of all music ; and the voice seems to be here more
greatly prized than is any kind of instrumental music.
Wagner's idea on this point, if it be not acceptable in its
entirety, still suggests that a good deal of improvement in
the present orchestral accompaniments is wanting ; and we
certainly agree with him when he opines that in many operas
the accompaniments are more like that heard on a banjo,
or the usual bass of an ordinary waltz. It, indeed, spoils the
effedl of a grand opera ; and it is exadtly in this very point
that some of Wagner's early works are rendered so delightful
and appreciative. It is also the master's opinion that the
most trifling part of a musical work shall be considered of
importance, so that, as a result, the whole shall be one
glorious harmony, which is to be likened unto the " great
forest-melody heard on a summer's morning," which, while
it will haunt the mind afterwards, leaves it impossible to
catch or to take away any individual part thereof. On
something of this kind of theory is the " Musk of the
Future " to be construdted ; and, in the Wagnerian style of
opera, Poetry and Music shall meet on terms of equality ;
to which end it is that Wagner will seldom or never entrust
the composition of his librettos to strange hands, but is his
own librettist, although of the merits of his poetical talents
we prefer to keep silence. There is no ambition on the
part of our subjedt, either, to have his music done to death
on the street organ, like that of many of his contemporaries
in the art. His ambition soars far higher. The more airs
or melodies, therefore, of any opera which you hear per-
formed upon this instrument of torture (as a rule), so much
the worse must you opine of that wfork from the standpoint
of the " Musician of the Future;" and we may add, so far
at least has Wagner succeeded in his 'propounded theory,
since Wagnerian music, we are safe to assert, was never yet
heard upon street organs of any description, di.
It is fair to admit that in his own country Wagner's
Wagner in London. 627
music has gained much popularity, and many of his operas
are copiously quoted from (if we may say so in a musical
sense) at Cafe Garten concerts, and the like* There lingers
a doubt in our mind, however, whether this popularity be
the outcome of sincere and genuine appreciation, or whether
it be only a freak of fashion. If we would be honourable,
we must avow that much of Wagner's early music is really
very grand and very beautiful. There is music in " Der
fliegende Hollander," " Tannhauser," and " Lohengrin,"
with which, in some cases, for depth, solidity, and solemn
impressive grandeur, and in others, for softness of tone,
melodious beauty, and poetic spirit, the music of the general
run of operas will compare but poorly, and which only
one or two of the heavier kind of operas can be allowed to
rival. There are few more effective overtures — if, indeed,
any — to our humble mind, than those to the operas
" Lohengrin" and "Tannhauser," while, in the latter-named
work, the " Pilgrim's Chorus," for harmonious grandeur and
substantiality, as well as for melodious sweetness, far sur-
passes any other chorus of the kind that has yet been
composed.
If we add to the three operas just named those known as
" Die drei Feen " (his first work), " Liebes-verbot," and
" Rienzi," besides some few minor works, all the result of
his early labours, we complete the list of Wagner's works in
which the music is of an appreciative charadter, and it is
significant to note that, while this is so, these are the very
works which are the least satisfactory to their author,
inasmuch as they coincide too much with the general
idea of operatic music, and abound too greatly in melody
and song. The standard by which Richard Wagner desires
to be judged, is by the work of his later years, or which has
more recently appeared before the public, and this standard
is of his own creation. By the result of the great festival
last year at Bayreuth he desires to stand or fall. Un-
fortunately, however, no tangible result accrued, for the
vast concourse of all ranks which gathered to hear
this labour of thirty long years, could only recognise
in it a work of colossal proportions, but appeared not in
anv wav struck with the new class of music. The reader
628 St. James's Magazine.
knows, of course, that a theatre had specially to be con-
strutted for the Trilogy' on which Wagner staked his future
fame and name ; he knows also the character of the per-
formances which took place in that building ; and he may
also be aware of the results which attended these gigantic
displays, for truthfully they can only be characterized as
such. We need not dwell therefore on the " Ring des Nibel-
ungen" further than to say, what, perhaps, is already an
established fadt, that as a musical feat it fell far short of
what was intended for it, and in the musical and art world
generally it was what might fairly be termed a failure. The
harmonies produced were certainly very grand, though not
anything very extraordinary ; but then to listen to harmonies
for a period of four hours at one time is monotonous, to
say the least of it. Can you fancy a man sitting down to
the pianoforte and entertaining his friends with a series
of harmonic chords, modulations and the like, and
giving pleasure ? Do the friends not look for the
melody or theme that is to come, and, when finding
neither makes its appearance, does not a feeling of dis-
appointment and dissatisfadtion arise within them as the
result ? Such is the sort of feeling, certainly, which the
Bayreuth performances evoked, and the whole work could
only be looked upon as a grand fairy spedtacular drama,
with orchestral accompaniments, a gorgeous and wonder-
ful pantomine got up for the enjoyment of old people. Not
even in Germany, his fatherland, did Wagner, or his work
fare well, and he and it were the subjects of satire, sarcasm,
and caustic and drastic remarks, at the hands of the most
qualified authorities of his own country, such as Paul
Lindaw, Spitzer, and others. Nor does the fadt of the
"Ring des Nibelungen" being the work of matured de-
liberation tend to soften or modify in any way the judg-
ment so universally and unanimously pronounced ; on the
contrary, it enhances the verdidt, and we can only deplore
the ambition which could have prompted a man to waste
thirty years of his life in a work of this kind. It was com-
menced in 1847, we are told, and laboured at on and off, as
circumstances occasioned, up to the Festival of last year,
"^he poem of the triple drama is of course Wagner's own
Wagner in London." 629
effusion, and was finished and printed so early as 1853, but
it was not until 1856 that he commenced to compose the
music. Working arduously at it, however, he completed
the scores of the introdudtion, and the first two sections of the
Trilogy by the next year, the remaining sections being left
unfinished for some years.
It seems to us that in the case of the Trilogy the work
was of too gigantic a chara<5ter to be compassed properly
by Wagner, that his ambition flew too high, and that, in
short, he undertook what he was not fitted nor qualified
efficiently to perform. In his works of lesser note his success
has been much greater, and they have been much more
appreciated. As an instance, he composed, at request, a
" Fest Marsch " for the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition
of last year, which met with the greatest success, and for
which, a German paper states, he received 5,000 dollars in
gold. Twenty years ago, when he gave " Lohengrin " to
the German world, he got just 300 thalers for the whole
opera, a comparison worth noting. It would have been
well, then, for Wagner to have adhered to works within his
compass, to have consulted the public taste in some
measure, without relying wholly upon his own, and to
have recognised and studied the importance of melody in
relation to harmony; and, having done this, he might pro-
bably have secured a pedestal in the Temple of Fame,
perhaps a little lower only than our great masters and
patriarchs of music — Beethoven, Bach, Handel, and Mozart.
But conceit and ambition stepped in and interfered, and it
is also thought that a disappointed and galled spirit had
something to do in prompting the wild, unmelodious, and
tiring music which Wagner would fain thrust upon us for
future entertainment. It is said that when in Paris as a
young man he was fired with enthusiasm by a grand opera
he heard there, and followed it up by writing one himself;
but on offering it to the authorities of the theatre it was
refused. This disappointment soured his spirit, it is sup-
posed, and he resolved to strike out a path for himself, and
to cause a wholesale revolution in musical notions, tastes,
and ideas. He has published many letters and epistles
addressed to the musical world, in which his theorv and
630 St. James's Magazine.
ideas are thoroughly expounded, but they have been no
more fruitful than his later illustrations. These, we believe,
he wrote during his exile in Switzerland.
Among the first fruits of his new theory was the opera
" Die Meistersinger von Ntirnberg," which he designated
a comic opera. We cannot help thinking, however, he must
have bestowed this epithet on it in a passing mood of
frivolity. More dry and doleful music, or a more protracted
and wearisome performance it has never, before or since,
been our misfortune to witness or sit through. In 1857 he
commenced " Tristan und Isolde," another praftical illus-
tration of his theory. For twenty years was this opera in
its creator's hands, and yet it possesses no more charm,
beauty, or musical merit for the fadt.
In conclusion of so brief a survey of Wagner's theory and
works as a limited paper like the present would admit of,
we have only to remark that the present position of
Wilhelm Richard Wagner and his works, and the success
they have met with, afford, as it were, the key to his life
and character. Restless ambition and overweening pride
have indisputably spoilt a reputation that might otherwise
have been high and great throughout the whole musical
world. He has attempted that which has been out of
all proportion with his grasp, he has sought to do that
which would be one of the wonders of the day, and which
men would stare at, and be filled with supreme astonish-
ment. In a sense he has succeeded, but success of this
kind is but poor reward for the labour expended on the
same. If we beheld and were amazed, the adtion was
devoid of all admiration, and it was more in the character
of the cynic th^oi any other that we looked on. There
would arise in many, too, a feeling of pity for a man, who
is really talented as a musician, who has actually genius of
no mean order, to have been led so to misdireft the gift
which nature bestowed on him, no matter to what cause
it is owing.
The six concerts which made up the Wagner Festival
at the Royal Albert Hall have just been completed, and
we are enabled to add a few brief remarkg itojgb^3©g*{e
formances.
Wagner in London. b$x
Financially speaking, we should say the Festival was most
successful, the Hall having been crowded in all parts on
each occasion. Nor were the assemblies which gathered
to hear Wagnerian music wanting in nobility and fashion,
since the noblest in the land, from Royalty downwards, might
be there seen at almost every c6ncert.
The orchestra which discussed the music was estimated
at 200 performers, but in point of fa<5t this number was
never actually reached, owing to various circumstances ;
as a rule they mustered, however, about 170 instrumen-
talists, and were divided as follows: 105 combined strings,
six flutes, seven oboes, eight clarionets, seven bassoons, eight
horns, five trumpets, five trombones, and five tubas. There
were also four drummers and seven harps. As we have
already remarked, Wagner was accompanied by many of
his Bayreuth satellites. Among these we may specially
mention Madame Materna, who took the part of Briinnhilde;
Herr Chandon, Herr Carl Hill, and Herr Unger, known to
the public as the Siegfried of " Der Ring des Nibelungen."
In regard to these vocalists, we would only say that great
as may be their status in Wagnerian opera, it is to be feared
that their powers of vocalisation would fail of appreciation
in true operatic works in this country. This probably is,
however, less their own fault than that of the training which
it has been necessary for them to undergo, in order to
become real Wagnerian exponents, where declamation
entirely supersedes melody.
Of the programmes which made up the various perform-
ances of this eventful Festival, we must speak in the briefest
manner. Selections were made from the whole range of
Wagner's works, a circumstance which told favourably for
the German Maestro. " Rienzi," " Der fliegende Hollander,"
" Tannhauser," " Lohengrin," and many other works were
duly represented ; above all, of course, the " Ring des
Nibelungen," the great example of true music in Wagner's
opinion. Several of the composer's marches were performed
with great success, amongst the rest being Huldigung's
march, which was composed in 1864 for the young King of
Bavaria, who, as we know, has always been Wagner's
staunchest patron. The curious likeness between this march
632 St. James's Magazine.
and the French " Partant pour la Syrie" makes one
wonder whether, as a daily contemporary has pointed out,
the monarch was complimented or not by the dedication.
Numerous and extensive excerpts were made from the great
Bayreuth music-drama, from the prefatory " Das Rhein-
gold," to the final " Gotterdammerung," but as Wagner's
theory is that music, poetry, and painting (or scenic effedt)
ought to be indissoluble in the opera, the rendering of these
extracts, as may be imagined, fell flatly on the audiences,
from the fadt that the whole work had been constructed on
this very principle.
As a whole, the Albert Hall Festival has been no more
successful than that of Bayreuth last year, and what has
just been heard in London merely goes to confirm the
opinion which we have already recorded, that only by his
early works will Wagner be appreciated. There could be
no more conclusive proof of this than the fadt that, while
attention, appreciation, and applause always met all extracts
and excerpts from such works as " Rienzi," " Tannhauser,"
and other early operas already mentioned ; yet so soon as
music from " Das Rheingold," or other sedtional parts of
" Der Ring des Nibelungen" was begun, restlessness at
once showed itself amongst the audience, which would
gradually thin and become " beautifully less," although such
a&ion is to be deprecated as unworthy of our country. We
cannot help thinking that the great motive which prompted
the vast assemblies to colleft in the Albert Hall was more
that of curiosity, than anything else, to see the man who
would upset all our time-honoured theories, and substitute
his own wild, fanciful ideas for the same. There was no
doubt, too, a disposition to welcome a foreigner whose name
is so well known, notwithstanding that we may be opposed
to the particular theories by which he has made himself
known to the world; and that this was so was plainly
evinced by the tributes of compliment paid to him and some
of his coadjutors, such as Hans Richter and Wilhelmj.
We have said little of last year's Festival at Bayreuth,
because we would not weary the reader by treading on
ground that has already so much been gone over during the
past few months, and we have referred very briefly^S^
Wagner in London. 633
the present Festival at the Albert Hall, because the perform-
ances have been carried on so far in the month as to leave
us too little time for any lengthened account and criticism.
We may say this much, however, that enough had been heard
about this kind of music almost to prejudice the English
community (musical) beforehand against it, and that, while
melody and song and the power of the voices continue to
be dear to English hearts and ears, it is hardly possible
that a theory, which is so damning to each and all of these,
will ever gain ground here. There is little fear, therefore,
that our native taste for, and culture of music, will in any
way be influenced by Wagner's visit to our capital, and glad
as we have been to accord a welcome to a foreigner whose
name is so well and widely known, and to give his work a
fair trial, yet there are few of us who will not rejoice that
this is the case.
Archibald Granger Bowie.
" Sweet are the uses of Adversity."
Great God, whose wisdom holds it meet
That poor my lot should be,
I thank Thee for the uses sweet
Of stern Adversity.
Adversity ! no step-dame thou,
But mother true as stern,
Beneath thy deeply-furrowed brow
A quenchless love doth burn.
*Tis love that guides thy chastening hand,
Tis kindness makes thee cruel,
The Virtues rise at thy command,
And thrive beneath thy rule.
Like flowers that spring in woodland glen,
From tender culture far,
Grown strong from trial by wind and rain,
Thy hardy children are. ^
Benjamin Forster. ,/jJP
VOL. I. ^^^ 44 /+\ 0
In a Rose Garden.
HE came when the grass was greenest,
When the buds were bursting to bloom,
When the Spring sun shone serenest,
On Winter's garlanded tomb.
We stood by a cluster of blossom,
As a Summer day drew to its close,
He plucked, and placed in my bosom
His token, — a love-red rose.
He left me, and sailed o'er the waters
To a flowery and fragrant isle,
Whose roses blow redder, whose daughters
Are born with a sunnier smile.
And my heart has known its passion,
Has wrestled and wrought in vain,
Has learned the world-wide fashion
Of parting, forgetting, and pain.
And passing Summers harden
The pathway I have to tread ;
But sometimes I walk in the garden
When the sun is bright o'erhead ;
And I pluck me a rosy blossom,
Its perfume soothes my pain,
And I dream I wear in my bosom
His love-red rose again.
Qjatizedby ytfO
A Seizure for Queens Taxes.
By JAMES GEORGE HARWOOD.
[HEN business is over and time is my own, I much
enjoy leisurely strolling along the busy streets,
looking as I go at what other people are doing.
I do not make for the aristocratic end of the town, and
note the blank appearance of the very respeftable family
mansions abounding in that quarter, or watch the habits
and customs of footmen and servants, who may be seen
sitting outside the handsome establishments, when high
life does its shopping ; but I seledt a neighbourhood
where the inhabitants have quite enough to think about
to gain a livelihood. I wander in those parts where the
folks do not wish to be too respeftable, and where a
carriage and servants are not essential to the making of
those purchases a hard earned wage can effedt. Here,
where there is no need to conceal the feelings and passions
which actually animate the breast, there is little or no
pretence. I fancy it very frequently happens where mansions,
and carriages, and horses abound, there is also an immense
amount of affe&ation, and a very poor display of what is
natural and easy. It would be ridiculous to assert that
such a disgusting attribute as affedtation is to be found
among the truly great. It is one of the signs by which
true greatness may be recognised, that affe<5tation is a
quality unknown to it. But imitation is so common in
the world, and fortunes are so oddly and suddenly made,
that speedily acquired riches frequently raise the spurious
to a position where the habit of gentle or noble birth, if
assumed, must be aped. Thus is it, that affectation, drawn
636 St. James's Magazine.
along in a carriage and pair, and residing in a family mansion,
is an every-day sight, and one hardly worth recording. It
is not more surprising, if those poor weak-headed mortals,
who have been placed by a fickle fate on a pinnacle Nature
never intended them to occupy, should be found wanting
in genuineness of thought and aftion, when suddenly trans-
ferred from their own to a higher sphere, than that the
monkey dancing on a barrel-organ should be rendered
arrogant by the gaudiness of his attire, and the strains of
music in his honour. The same feeling animates the monkey
as exists in those who are affedted. Watch him, and although
you can plainly see he is pleased with his surroundings, yet
he tries to preserve a calm air, as if to impress you with
the fa<5t that he was born in a red coat, and a barrel-organ
is his native home.
Walking along that thoroughfare which passes through
Whitechapel, Bow, Leytonstone, and continues northward
until it goes beyond the compass of my map, I chanced
to see, in the distance, a crowd rather larger than is usually
found in this well populated district. Being on the qui-vive
for excitement of any sort, from the extraordinary announce-
ments made by newspaper boys to the ordinary traffic of
the road, I welcomed this sight as one likely to provide
food for my curiosity. I quickened my pace until I had
reached the outskirts of the mob, where I sought a convenient
leaning-place, and settled down to enjoy all there was to be
seen. But my peace was of short duration. Two ladies,
attired as washerwomen delight to dress, their arms akimbo,
and their hair dishevelled, soon caused me to move to a more
congenial spot. Hardly had I accustomed myself to the
change of position, when my pleasure was dissipated by the
arrival of two gentlemen, who, in all the innocence of
unconscious rudeness, placed themselves, as had the
washefwomen before them, so as to obscure what I was
longing to contemplate in uninterrupted quietude. One of
these gentlemen was very black and sooty. He was smoking
a short, well-colored, clay pipe. His pipe and tobacco were
not of the sweetest, and the puff of smoke I accidentally
swallowed, perhaps might have aided digestion, but certainly
,;d not improve my frame of mind. I took this gentleman
A Seizure for Queen's Taxes. 637
for a sweep off duty. His companion was a railway-porter,
fustian clad, and shewing signs of his day's labour. He did
not smoke, but he carried bloaters in his jacket pocket.
Probably he was taking these herrings home as a relish to
his evening meal. Would that he had been more hungry ! he
would have hurried on, and I should not have been compelled
to move a second time. Twice had I stood against the
shop-fronts ; twice had I been covered and driven from my
legitimate standing-place, by reason of the fastidiousness of
my olfadtory organs. I now stood at the very edge of the
curb, and whoever came stood behind me and escaped
notice.
There was certainly something unusual going on. Sure
so large a crowd would not jeer and laugh at a couple of
men if they were merely moving furniture off premises in
a friendly way. The appearance of a small round table
would not evoke hisses ; and there is nothing about a chest
of drawers to call forth shouts of laughter. However, a
number of persons bent on amusing themselves are sure to
succeed, be the cause of their pleasure ever so trifling; so to
watch and be silent, and, if possible, join in the fun, suggested
itself. But a cottage piano swung out of the first-floor
window, in a dangerous and awkward manner, to the
imminent peril of all within reach of it, was the signal for
such a volley of groans and such fierce sibilant signs of
disapprobation, that I was compelled to ask what was the
cause of this display of popular displeasure. The man I ac-
costed, like most persons casually consulted for information,
was unable to give any ; but a youth, who was standing near,
having overheard the question, and who, from his appearance,
might have met with serious misfortune to himself had he
been compelled to retain the intelligence, immediately
volunteered all he knew about the matter. It was a seizure
for Queen's taxes. The youth proceeded to inform me that
the closed shop from which the furniture was being taken
had not long been opened. It had been kept by two young
women, who always dressed in black. They were evidently
not used to business, and it was well known all around those
parts that an appeal for assistance, or a tale of trouble,
always called forth their tears and their purses. They had
638 St. Jatnes's Magazine.
come from the country, and, from want of experience,
together with their soft hearts, had spent what little money
they once possessed. They must now go adrift in the world,
and trust to Providence for a fair wind.
Picture those two poor girls, orphans, may be, and friend-
less, cowering in some dark room just desecrated by the
pitiless marauders, where they could ever and anon hear
the shouts and hisses of the populace without, ignorant
whether they or their spoilers were the cause of the angry
noises. Fancy them clinging to each other, their hearts
full nigh to bursting, yet too fearful to weep; they, who
had helped all that came near them, were now deserted.
Think of them recalling the days when fond parents cared
for them and guarded them, when trouble was unknown,
and, hand in hand, they laughed and sang as free and
happy as the day was long ; and see them now, huddled
together, apprehensive of they know not what, heart-sink-
ing, quite alone.
The shop-door is closed ; the last article has been taken ;
the bailiffs mount their cart, and, amid ironical cheers,
groans and hisses, and, by-the-by, some few missiles, pro-
jected by totally unknown hands, drive away with their
lawful booty.
The crowd, having seen all there was to be seen, dis-
persed. Some persons, making shrill noises or laughing,
followed after the cart; others gesticulating, seemingly
condemned the law which allows people who do not pay
their taxes, to be treated in so summary a manner.
There was, at least, in this scene, ground for a few
surmises and some reflection, and I might have deduced
many very profitable conclusions had I been of the mind
to remain there and meditate. It occurred to me, however,
that there might be scope for something more practical
than mere selfish reflection, and reminding me of a friend
who never turns a deaf ear to a sorrowful tale, or refuses
succour to the distressed, and is ever thankful that he is
able to follow the dictates of his heart, I thought I had
here found an opportunity for the exercise of his benignity.
A few enquiries might be made without either intrusion
or impertinence, and, perhaps, a service rendered, in an
A Seizure for Queen's Taxes. 639
indireft way, that would keep free and untainted the channel
of two lives.
I walked on a short distance to take time for considering
how the purport of my visit should be introduced. No
satisfactory scheme, however, presenting itself, the cause
must plead itself; so I retraced my steps, and soon arrived
at the shop-door. Having knocked, I stood for some time
awaiting admission, and was surprised to hear high and
angry voices within, voices such as could not belong to the
young and gentle creatures I had imagined the inmates
to be.
To turn away was the first impulse, but curiosity framed
an excuse for having knocked at the door, should the occu-
pants of the house be of the Billingsgate class of the fair
sex, and I stayed. The high voices drowned my feeble
knock, but a louder one succeeded in attracting attention.
Then there was a lull, and I could hear persons talking in
an undertone. In a short time, the door was flung open
and I was suddenly confronted with, " Well ! what do you
want ? "
I was surprised to recognise in the angry, stout woman,
who addressed me, her arms still akimbo, and her hair
rather the worse for her mental disquietude, one of my
friends, the washerwomen; and, peeping round the door
that leads into the shop, I saw the face of her companion.
Surely these were not the young and innocent creatures,
fresh from the country, whose tender hearts and open purses
had brought them to such dire distress ? Had these apparent
viragoes some charm beneath their rough exteriors which
influenced those who came near them and caused them to
be beloved for the gentle light of goodness which it shed
over their persons ? It was a pity this gentle light should
have been mixed up with a fragrance remarkably similar to
that dispersed by the spirit distilled from the juniper berry !
The two young girls who kept the fancy-shop and these
washerwomen could not be identical.
" I wish to see the young ladies who keep this shop," I
replied to the question, " what do you want ? "
" Who is if, Mrs. Briggage ? Pray let him in ; we are
not at all afraid now." A lovely girl, about twenty years
640 St. Jatnes's Magazine.
of age, with fair wavy hair and bright blue eyes still glisten-
ing with tears, came into the darkened shop, and procured
my admittance.
Mrs. Briggage threw looks of fierce defiance at me, and
retired to join her companion, and the couple stood behind
the young girl, like faithful dogs, ready to defend their
mistress on the slightest provocation.
Just then the other sister appeared. She was the elder
of the two. She was dark, with well-defined features, but
she looked very pale and careworn. It was she on whose
shoulders fell the burden of their trouble.
" More of 'em," Mrs. Briggage growled out. " They
soon 'ears when a party's in distress. I expedl they tells
each other."
I said I was not what she implied ; I was a friend.
" Friends don't come nigh a body such times as these,"
Mrs. Briggage said, still on the growl.
" Don't say that, Mrs. Briggage," the younger sister said,
putting her hands on the washerwoman's shoulders, and
smiling in her face. " What am I to call you ? You are a
friend, are you not ? "
II Bless your pretty little face, that I am, dearey," Mrs.
Briggage replied, softening wonderfully, " and so's Mrs.
Potts, only she's one of them timid ones as don't say 'alf
what they feel in their 'earts."
" I took the liberty of calling on you," I said, addressing
myself to the elder sister, " to enquire if anything could be
done to render you assistance."
" Thank you," the elder sister replied, in a voice that
could not but have touched the hardest heart ; " I fear it is
too late. Our little business has failed. We have paid our
rent and the tradespeople, but we had no money for the
taxes. They have taken nearly all our small stock of
furniture. Our fancy work, I fear, is of little value. I'm
afraid we have only the world before us. Thank you, indeed,
for your goodness, but — " and, as she held out her hand,
her brave spirit gave way, and she wept on the washer-
woman's shoulder.
"There, there, dearey; bear up. Why, look at me.
Dont'ee be so timid. I was left a orphan a good deal
A Seizure for Queen's Taxes. » 641
earlier than you ; so was Mrs. Potts, wern't you ma'am ?
and we've got through the world and nothing much to
grumble at, except them taxes. You heard Mrs. Potts
and me having a few words about them just now. The
country wouldn't go on without them, Mrs. Potts says, my
dear. Then let them as wants it to go on pay for it, I
replies. I don't care whether it goes on or stays still ;
people must have their washing done."
The elder sister smiled through her tears, thanked Mrs.
Briggage for her consolation, and enquired whether I would
step within and sit down.
I accepted the invitation, and Mrs. Briggage and Mrs.
Potts having also stepped within, sat down too.
The room in which I found myself, although deprived of
the heavier articles of furniture, shewed it had been arranged
by delicate and tasteful hands. A few water-colour drawings,
a couple of crayon-heads, evidently productions from school-
girl hands, adorned the walls ; and there were a few books,
which had been rudely thrown down, in one corner.
" They have left me my books and pictures," the elder
sister said, with a faint-hearted smile. " These trees were
sketched by my dear father, and that head my mother
drew."
Mrs. Briggage here declared that it was like having pins
in one's side keeping those " relics " hanging up to remind one
of bygones every minute. Mrs. Briggage made a few more
remarks on the subject, concluding with, "What I was
going to say, was, where's Miss Ellicens a-going? for
they'll have to turn out of here very soon."
"Is your name Ellicen ?" I enquired, with some amount of
earnestness in my tone. The sisters were attracted by my
eagerness for their reply, and the two champions regarded
me quite amicably.
" Yes, our name is Ellicen," the elder sister said. " It is
usual to paint one's name over the shop-window, I know ;
but we were too timid to make ourselves so conspicuous."
I gave what comfort I could to the young girls, and bade
them hope for the best. I beckoned Mrs. Briggage to the
door, and led that good watch-dog to understand that the
money placed in her hand was to be used, in case of neecL- ;;
642 St. James's Magazine.
by the two sisters ; that very shortly she would have good
news for her young charges, and then her kindness would not
be forgotten.
Mrs. Briggage, her arms akimbo, and her mouth and eyes
wide open, remained mute with astonishment ; and in that
state I left her. Later on, in the evening, I visited my
friend with an intention far more serious than merely point-
ing out to his notice a case in which his ready benevolence
would be of timely service.
I found him sitting in his favorite arm-chair, thinking.
When his eyes lighted up they were bright and kindly,
but he had always given me the idea that he had some
great grief at heart, of which he could not rid himself. He
was clever, well beloved in his profession, and moderately
rich. Ever since I had known him, his life seemed to have
been one long pilgrimage of mercy and charity ; but there
was always a shadow over him. I had never, in conversa-
tion, mentioned his private affairs, and on that subjedt, he,
himself, was very reticent. But now there was that on my
mind which compelled me to speak, and although I might
be encroaching within the limit of his generosity by touch-
ing on so delicate a theme, I considered the ultimate benefit
I had in view would far exceed any temporary discomfort
I might cause him.
" Dodtor," I said, after a few introductory questions, " I
must now ask you something, evep at the risk of forfeiting
your friendship. Your grandchildren "
" You have found them !" the old gentleman said, start-
ing up, but tottering back again into his seat. " I lost
sight of them after he died." And then his heart found
relief in tears.
It is hard to see an old man weep, but it is harder far
for him who weeps. He was expiating the error of his life ;
he was acknowledging his repentance. He was yielding to
that sorrow which had held him from the day he had dis-
owned his only son. Proud and unbending, he had seen his
hair turn silvery white ; he had groaned and writhed within
himself; but his will had always conquered. What he had
done, he had done for the best, and he would abide by it.
At last, his will had given way, and it was dying a cruel death.
A Seizure Joy Queen's Taxes. 643
For some time he was silent. When he spoke, he seemed
a changed man. His voice, always gentle, was even more
mellow ; his brow was clear, and his eyes had lost their
wonted heaviness.
" It is over," he said. " I have crushed it. Bring them
to me."
I pressed his hand, and, unable to speak, could only
indicate my willingness to obey. As I was leaving, the
DocStor put into my hand a note, the envelope of which was
yellow and faded by time. It was directed to the Rev.
Frederick Ellicen.
As fast as a good horse could take me, I hastened back
to the two sisters. Mrs. Briggage opened the door to me,
and was, if possible, more surprised at my re-appearance
than she had been at my departure. I speedily confided
my business to her, and, by that means, gained access to
the young girls.
Mrs. Potts had been crying ; so had the sisters.
" She's been thinking of Potts," Mrs. Briggage explained.
" And just as if them poor dears havn't got enough to think
about besides Potts, she set them off, too. I ain't no
patience with her."
" You mentioned your father during my previous visit," I
said, addressing myself to the elder sister. " Did you ever
hear him speak of your grandfather ? Dr. Ellicen was he
called ? "
The sisters were strangely agitated at this question. I
thought of the note the dodtor had given me, and handed
it to Miss Ellicen. It was dated many years back — her
father's wedding day. The quarrel between father and son
had been fierce ; but the father had evidently regretted his
severity, and written his forgiveness. A sudden return of
passion or pride, which time had never subdued till too late,
must have prevented the despatch of this conciliatory letter.
" Shall we go to him, Lily ? " the elder sister said.
" If you had seen his heart nearly breaking; if you had
seen the struggle he had with his pride "
"Alas! sir," the elder sister said, "pride has been our
bane. My grandfather disowned his son because he was
proud, and angry that he should have married a woman
644 St. Jatncs's Magazine.
without either wealth or position. Pride kept the son
from appealing to the father. And, alas ! sir, we have the
same pride. We thank you for your kind intention. Tell
our grandfather we shall always love him and pray for him,
but we cannot go to him. We must fight the world alone."
The sisters arose ; and there was such strong determination
in their mien that I could find no word to say to them.
Mrs. Briggage and Mrs. Potts, however, who only saw the
folly of throwing away a good chance, and did not under-
stand such sentiments as "would take the bread out of
one's mouth," poured out volumes of eloquence in favour
of my mission.
The elder sister smiled ; and, with tears on her cheeks,
kissed the rough, earnest women. Her pride was firm, but
there was an inexpressible softness in her disposition.
" If you had seen the old man's tears," I said, with some
bitterness, " you would not be so cruel."
" His tears ! " the younger sister said. " His tears ! Oh !
I could not bear to see a man cry. Mary," she continued,
addressing her sister, " Mary, we must go to him. His
pride has given way if he has wept."
" There, my dearey ; why, of course, it has," Mrs. Briggage
began : and Mrs. Potts played second, until, by dint of pro-
testation, or more probably on account of that pure spring of
affeftion, which must well out of every true maiden's heart,
the elder sister held out her hand to me, and, with a faltering
voice, said, " We are ready. Take us to him."
I did not visit my friend, Dr. Ellicen, for some time after
the event just narrated. When next I saw him, he was an
altered man : he looked years younger. The two sisters
received me with unconcealed pleasure; and Lily, the
younger, quite unconsiously, of course, very nearly stole
that which she might have been unable to return. Some
day, I hope, — but a voice I recognised surprised me almost
as much as the change in my dear friend, the dodtor, had
done. It was Mrs. Potts who addressed me, wishing
me all manner of good things. She had been engaged by
the young ladies in some domestic capacity, and seemed
well cared for. Mrs. Briggage had been offered a place of
trust, but had declined it. She could fight the world, and
A Seizure for Queen's Taxes. 645
with five meals a day, beer, and half-a-crown, rather enjoy
the struggle. Once a fortnight Mrs. Briggage sups with Mrs.
Potts at Dr. Ellicen's, and, on those occasions, the young
ladies go downstairs and enquire how she is, and hear her
troubles; and Mrs. Briggage never leaves the Doctor's
house without a bright smile on her face, a trifle in her
pocket, and a small parcel under her arm.
There is one house where the tax-gatherer — poor man,
he never seems to understand it — is welcome: "for," Lily
said to me, " we should never have seen dear grandpapa
had it not been for our seizure for Queen's Taxes."
" A PRESENCE WHICH IS NOT TO
BE PUT BY."
Only a child at her play,
Fair as a Summer-day,
Glad as the spring ;
Careless of unknown grief,
Sporting with flower and leaf
While the birds sing.
Only a maiden, fair,
Sitting alone where
Murmurs the stream ;
Deep in the heart of her
Does a sweet vision stir,
Of a love-dream ?
Only a woman, the street
Pacing with weary feet,
Ghastly her mirth ;
Hollow her laughter rings,
Sad are her wanderings
Over the earth.
Only a soul down-trod,
Crying aloud to God
'Gainst a deceiver;
Brothers, for very shame,
In God's most Holy Name,
Shall we thus leave her?
B. N. C.
Only a Music-Master.
By FANNY AIKIN-KORTRIGHT.
CHAPTER XXXV.
RESURGIT.
|HEN Horatia returned to herself, it was after a
long and painful illness. It was in the stranger's
land, in unfamiliar scenes, that was better for her.
Was it fancy, or did the face of the thin, pale man, which
bent over her, wear a stern expression? She shuddered
and closed her eyes as she encountered his gaze.
" Horatia, do you still hate me ?"
" Hate you ! hate you ! the only friend I have ever had ? "
cried Horatia, with all the accent of truth, and as she spoke
she rose impetuously from the couch on which she lay, and
fell at his feet, raising her eyes, which seemed full of sup-
plication, to his face.
" Horatia, I cannot bear this."
" Oh, my lord, if you only knew, there is but one wish in
my heart — to die and free you from the sore burden I have
laid upon you, to be able to show you more gratitude."
" Gratitude again ! " exclaimed Lord Selmore. " Must I
hear that for ever ! No gratitude, Horatia, away with such
talk. If you cannot give me- your love, give me in frankness
and honour your confidence. What is this dead weight
that presses on your mind ? Who was that stranger^rcrt'L
" Hush," said Horatia, rising, with tottering steps,
Only a Music-Master. 647
bending down till her lips nearly touched his ear, " hush, it
was a dead man."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Lord Selmore impatiently ; but
at that moment he met Horatia's eye, and started, hardly
suppressing a cry of anguish, for it seemed that the light of
madness was there. He heaved a deep sigh, and folded
her in his arms, shelteringly. " My poor darling, what
shall I do for you?"
" Take me where he cannot come — he pursues me ; he is
everywhere ! "
" My dear love, it is illusion — fancy. He resembles some
one you have seen perhaps. Who is it ?"
"Himself! himself!"
"Who dearest?"
Horatia looked more troubled. She looked quickly and
fearfully round the room.
" Horatia, there is no one here ; speak, whom do you
fear?"
"Take my hands in yours, Herbert. Hold me tightly.
I cannot leave you. You are very kind to me. He would
take me away if — if he could."
" Who ?" asked Lord Selmore in a low voice. " What is
it, Horatia?"
"Nothing! Nothing! the old horrible fancies," cried
Horatia, as if awakening, " and I thought they were gone.
Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Herbert ! "
" For what, my precious one ? "
" For the cloud I have spread over your noble life !
What right had I to burden you with such a load ? "
" You know I would not be without it. What would life
be to me without you ? "
Horatia smiled, or tried to smile ; her husband laid her
tenderly on the sofa and soothed her to sleep like a child ;
and when she slept, he stood contemplating the fair image
as a mother gased on her slumbering child. Presently he
called her maid, and leaving her with a host of injunctions,
he strolled out into the silver moonlight that was flooding
the city. He walked on rapidly, and, plunged in thought,
had soon lost his way in a labyrinth of narrow streets. On
awaking from his reverie, he was far from his temporary
648 St. James's Magazine.
home, and in a spot perfectly unknown to him. In his
embarrassment he addressed himself to a stranger who was
walking near him, to enquire the road. He turned to reply,
and as the light of the mimic day fell on his face, Selmore
recognised the young man whose sudden appearance had so
painfully impressed Horatia.
Instead of putting the trivial question he had intended,
he impetuously exclaimed : " Your name, Sir, I must know
your name!"
" You are quite welcome to know my name ; but may I
enquire why you would learn it? You hesitate; shall I
answer my own question ? You in some way connect Lady
Selmore's sudden illness with "
" What dare you know of Lady Selmore I " exclaimed
Lord Selmore, impetuously, his voice towering with agitated
passion. The young man opened his mouth to speak. He
breathed quickly and shortly as if with suppressed emotion.
He laid his hand on Lord Selmore's arm, and gasped, rather
than spoke : " You wished to know my name. Men call me
Valeric"
" Valerio," repeated Lord Selmore, distractedly, "that is
the name of the music-master."
" The same, my lord. What could there be in common
between the Countess of Selmore and Luigi Valerio, the
music-master."
Selmore was not master of himself. He stretched forth
his ami, and struck the slight youth to the ground. He
sprang to his feet, his eyes flashing like an Italian's, and,
eager for revenge, he seized Lord Selmore by the throat,
but some inward emotion restrained him, and he turned
away, saying, " Tell your Lady you have seen and fought
with Valerio."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
DEATH.
There is one who is no respe&er of persons. He came
and laid his hand on two old men in the parish where
Only a Music-Master. 649
Horatia had been born and spent her early days. He laid
his hand on an ottogenarian in a white-washed cottage ; he
laid it on the elderly gentleman, Mr. Ormsby, while he was
spending a few weeks in his ancestral Manor-house.
He whispered in the dull ears of both men — they heeded
not till he spake louder : then they pretended they did not
know his voice, but he chuckled and made them recognize
him. They started with affright, nay, with terror, for he had
said in solemn tones to each "set thine house in order," but
" as men live so do they die." The peasant had been a
harmless, inoffensive man, with only one great sin on his
conscience — he had once refused to forgive a girl of his
house who had been the first to bring shame on his name.
He sent for her, his granddaughter, now, that he might die
as he had lived, a Christian man. Mr. Ormsby sent for his
daughter, not about forgiveness ; he had no particular sins
on his memory, but the one he gloried in, his pride, and he
summoned Horatia to lay his injunctions on her, that the
second of her unborn sons should bear the name and per-
petuate the honours of the Ormsby family. And in both
the old men's hearts there was the spark of natural tender-
ness for the one objedt best loved on earth. The travelling
carriage that brought Lady Selmore to the Manor-house
jostled the cart that brought back Bessie Sparkes; it was in
sight of the steeple of the church that shadowed the grave-
yard. The women's eyes met, the eyes of the ermined
Countess and the fallen peasant girl's; both had been
weeping some natural tears, but both the causes of their
tears were forgotten at that moment.
" Again ! " said the Countess, with something like a
gasp!
" Again ! " said Bessie Sparkes, with a grim smile.
Lord Selmore said nothing: he had been very silent of
late, Horatia dared not ask him why, and he had been
frequently absent from his wife's side. She had not dared
to ask the reason of his absence either ; but now they were
going to stand side by side at a solemn death-bed.
" As men live so do they die." Mr. Ormsby's chamber
was arranged with not only extra care, but the richest furni-
ture the mansion could afford surrounded him. The last
G50 St. James's Magazine.
simple nourishment his decayed frame required was served
in beautiful crystal, on gorgeous salvers. His family tree
lay on his bed just at the spot where the Bible rested in the
hut of the dying peasant Christian, and when the natural
fear of coming dissolution for a moment left him, he was
busy counting up the honours of his line in the past, and
calculating on those of his unborn descendants.
But Horatia was by her father's deathbed ; his hand left
the family tree to rest lovingly on her head, as she bent
beside him, and pride was forgotten : " My child ! "
" Father! my own father! " cried Horatia, with a gush
of tenderness that was new to her, " my only, only friend,
wilt thou leave me ? "
The old man's lips quivered. He looked anxiously from
Horatia's pale face to her husband, but Lord Selmore
turned away his head with a sigh.
" Horatia, my darling, my pride, you are happy, surely
you are happy?" he cried, throwing all his feeble strength
into the ejaculation in the intensity of painful emotion.
" Speak to me, Horatia ! What, silent ! My lord, what is
this ? I demand as her father — as a dying man."
" Let Horatia speak."
" Father, he is all goodness — "
" Ah, I see. Selmore, bear with her; I had none but her,
the only child of my grey hairs. I have spoilt her a little,
nay much, perhaps ; lay that sin on me, and, save a few
wayward humours, she will ever honour the title she bears.
Bless you, my child ; bless you both. I am sleepy. Remember
your second son is an Ormsby and the old Manor-house is
his ; the old tree has sap in its branches yet. Let me sleep ! "
He smiled faintly as his voice grew more and more feeble ;
his hand dropped from Horatia's golden hair, and lay
caressingly on the yellow parchment on which was drawn
the family tree. The hand stiffened and grew cold upon
the parchment, one finger pointing to the name of the last
Ormsby. Horatia was led away by her husband, kindly,
gently, pityingly, but with no tender caress to make her
feel less alone in the wide world. Selmore's was a gentle
nature, but between the yearning tenderness in his soul and
he wife who had lain in his bosom, there rose up frightful
Only a Music-Master. 651
memories, and worse surmises ; not the least painful vision
standing between them were the twisted snakes of the
Laocoon, each typifying to his mind some hideous sin. Yet
Lord Selmore was far from imagining the worst. Had he
known it, his life, or reason, perchance both, must have
been broken.
Meanwhile the old Christian peasant also drew near his
last gasp : " I have forgiven thee, my lass ; thee must for-
give her."
" Not her ! not her, grandfather ! I can't forgive her ! "
" Who said seventy-times-seven, woman ? He did, thy
master and mine. Thee shalt forgive, I tell thee, and thee
shalt go up to the Manor-house and tell her thyself."
"I'd rather die, grandfather."
" Maybe ; but he gives thee no i rathers ' to choose. He
says do it, and thee maun do it. Forgive her, lass, forgive
her, I say, or I take back my forgiveness from thee and I
shan't rest in my grave, and it'll be worse for both our
souls, maybe."
" But for her— I might—"
" I'm going, lass, I'm going; labour and sorrow has been
too much for me ; and thee won't let me bless thee before I
go ! Thee won't, lass."
" The minister's coming by-and-bye, grandfather."
" The minister's here, woman — him that spoke the words
' until seventy times seven.' Lass, put up a word of prayer !"
" I pray, grandfather ? "
" Yes. Who was it rained out her prayers in tears on His
feet. Did He spurn her away," said the old man, with solemn
dignity. " Pray, lassie."
" 1 have no words," but Bessie sunk on her knees.
" ' Our father which art in heaven.' Say it girl, say it ! "
She repeated it after him with some difficulty. Still she
did repeat the words till he came to "forgive us our
trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us."
Then Bessie was choked.
"Thee wilt say it, lass, when thy dying grandfather
bids thee.
"'Forgive us our trespasses as-r*|$ze^&©* ; forgive them
that trespass against us.'
652 St. James's Magazine.
" That's it Bessie. Thee bee'st forgiven. TheeFt take
this old bit of freehold — thee and the child — and theel't
work at the new mill where they want hands, and thee
canst live an honest lassie. I may shut the door in the
world's face now, and look up. I'm going. Thou hast
forgiven, lass ? "
" Yes, yes, grandfather," sobbed the girl.
" Until seventy times seven," said the old peasant, and his
voice gently died away, while the angels carried him to the
bosom of Abraham.
" Better a woman work in a coal pit in a sack, than flaunt
in gay silks bought with sin and shame," at last spake Bessie.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
AN EXPLANATION THAT ENDS IN DARKNESS.
Six weeks had passed since Mr. Ormsby had been borne to
his grave with such state as would have comforted his soul,
could he have witnessed it, and almost reconciled him to
death itself. Horatia had remained at the Manor House
during that time, anxiously waiting from day to day, and
from hour to hour, that Lord Selmore should speak of their
departure. Each day, each hour she lingered there was
torture — there was no spot on which her eye fell but re-
awakened the most poignant regrets for past days of
comparative happiness, that happiness at least which the
absence of all painful emotions and remembrances can
give, the happiness, too, in the utter unconsciousness of
self-reproach. Ah ! how proudly had she walked through
life, till the fiend had thrown his glamor o'er her, and she
had been tempted into a sin which, perhaps, no woman of
keen sensibility ever survives. Horatia had pride of place
and chara&er ; she had also had, in the beginning of life, a
clear appreciation that high lineage entails spotless honor.
All the bright things were as vanished dreams, or as price-
less jewels, grasped in the early hours of morning, ere noon
dropped from a careless hand into a fathomless ocean : vet
Only a Music-Master. 653
how bright they had shone, how they glittered still in
memory !
Horatia knew she could never be happy again, but at
home she must be infinitely more wretched than elsewhere.
Selmore saw her misery ; she saw that he saw it, yet he made
no effort to mitigate her suffering, by removing her from
scenes that were most calculated to increase her sadness.
Never was heart more benevolent than his, but he seemed,
at least externally, frozen into something absolutely foreign
to his nature. Coldly, ceremoniously respectful before
their establishment, taciturn and sombre in their hours of
solitude, and under that demeanour a prey to the most ex-
quisite pangs that can assail a proud, noble nature. One
horrible dream filled his waking and sleeping hours. In the
obtrusive vision he saw Valerio as the lover of the woman
who bore his name.
His imagination did not go beyond that surmise, happily,
but that was sufficient to mar his peace for ever. She had
loved Valerio : she had lavished on him the tenderness that
was his own right : she had given him a cold hand, while
her lover's kisses were yet warm on her lips : she had married
him for pride, ambition, convenience, and the early days and
nights of their wedded life had been given to weeping for
Valerio. And what was the mystery that surrounded the
minstrel lover's existence ?
Dead — yet alive ! a name chiselled on a grave stone, and
the man that bore it wandering about, the shadow of Lady
Selmore.
Suddenly one evening Lord Selmore approached his wife,
remarking indifferently that the night was fine, and proposed
a stroll by moon-light.
" We can pretend we are lovers, you know, Horatia,,, he
said, bitterly. Horatia dared not refuse, though she dreaded
the walk, dreaded the conversation that might take place.
They wandered out into the moonshine, paced under the
gloom cast by the grand forest trees, then out again into
the broad light on the velvet turf. Finally they left the
grounds.
" It is late," said Horatia, timidly. feed by (
" Lovers never count the hours, and we are lovers, y
654 •*>'• tanivs's Magazine.
know, Horatia, are we not ? You arc silent. Horatia, I
fancy your character has one peculiarity ; it seems to me
you never lie — in words "
" Never, my lord."
44 What think you of lies in action — are they mean and
vile?"
14 They deserve death/' said Horatia, in a low, deep
voice.
" Yes, they deserve death ; but who should t>e the execu-
tioner ? "
" The sinner himself ; only he is a coward," said Horatia ;
44 but you were saying "
44 Oh, I was saying we were lovers. Why should we talk
of these sombre things ? "
44 Oh, not there! not there, my lord?" cried Horatia,
trying to draw him back by the arm, while Selmore was
deliberately opening the gate of the churchyard.
44 They sleep well," said Selmore, disregarding her.
" What would not many a living man give to win such
slumber?"
44 My dear lord, I beseech you, let us go home."
44 This is the home we must all come to at last, the home
1 have been dreaming of for some time, Horatia."
44 Let us go," repeated Horatia.
44 Surely you do not fear the dead ! Your own father, too,
who loved you."
44 Oh, don't think I fear my father ! He was always good
and gentle to me."
" What do you fear, then."
44 Nothing, nothing ! Go on if you will, my lord."
44 Where is it that foreigner was buried."
41 Foreigner ! "
44 Yes, the music-master, for whose dear sake Ellen
Grantley jilted me."
" My lord ! "
44 Don't be jealous of your lover, Horatia ; it is a thing of
the past, you know."
44 My lord, you are not well. I am sure you are not."
44 True ; but my disease is beyond the reach of arfc."G<
44 What can minister to a mind diseased ? "
Only a Music-Master. 655
" But you are sure he is dead ? "
" Dead, my lord ! "
" Yes, dead — don't mock me."
"Who?"
" Why this Valerio.,,
" My lord, he died. He lies buried yonder, under that
yew tree.,,
" You know him well, Horatia ? "
" My lord, he was my master.' '
" Your master ! Ah, then you had good opportunities of
judging of his character. Tell me now, was there more in
him to love than in me ? I set aside the accident of birth
and fortune ; I suppose we were equals, standing on the
common ground of our manhood, — was he more manly, more
gentle, more generous, more loving ? I know he had a fair
face, and that women love fair faces; but weighing the
heart and mind, and soul of both men, was there more to
love in this Valerio than in me ? Why should a woman — say
Ellen Grantley — why should she, or, for argument's sake, any
other, why should she give all that was worth having in
her to him, I say, and offer the empty husk of her beauty to
me!"
" Herbert Selmore ! My lord ! will you not come home ? "
"Are you weary, Horatia? Let us sit and rest here, —
here, on this grave, where you say your old master lies
buried. We shan't wake him."
" Oh, pity me, my lord."
" What is this frenzy, Horatia ? "
" Let go my hand. I will not hear these frightful things.
I will not sit upon that grave. Let me go "
" When I am satisfied, Lady Selmore, not before. Mark
me ; I was pitiful by nature. I would tread aside not to
crush a crawling worm in my path. I could not ruthlessly
bring down the quivering bird with my shot. Misery,
real misery, never held an imploring hand to me in vain ;
but I have been deceived, outraged, my honour and dignity
have been trampled in the dust, and if men do not point at
me with contemptuous pity, it is only because they do not
know the depth of my misfortunes. Horatia! You look
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
656 St. James's Magazine.
into my face if you can. You loved this man. You gave
him your heart ; to me your hand — your stained hand."
"Lord Selmore!"
" Yes. You adted the lie you would not speak ; and
now you tell me he is — dead ! "
" Of whom do you speak ?" gasped Horatia, pressing her
hand on her bosom.
" Of whom should I speak but of your lover, Valerio,
whom you say is dead."
Horatia could not speak. She pointed in silence where
the name shone clear and distinct on the white arms of the
stone cross.
" It is false — he lives/' cried Selmore.
" He lives ! " gasped Horatia.
" Yes ; and his ruffian hand has been on my throat. He
bade me tell you that it had.1'
" Valerio lives !" repeated Horatia.
" He lives. Darest thou exult in it ?"
" I dare. I would give all the remainder of my days for
it, if he could live ! " exclaimed Horatia.
" It is time that we return to our happy home, Lady
Selmore. Let me offer you my arm."
" Oh, my lord, do not mock me. I have deserved your
utmost anger — your worst reproaches; but henceforth I
will "
" Horatia, for us — for you and me together — there can be
no henceforth. I will protect you, shield your name, befriend
you as I can ; but I have learnt the worst."
"The worst!" repeated Horatia, almost in a tone of
enquiry.
"Aye; I have learned that which divorces our souls for
ever. Why should these poor hands remain joined ? To-
morrow I will devise some plan for you, trusting to whatever
remnant of honour remains in you not to disgrace the name
you bear. You will be satisfied."
" I shall be so, my lord. I am so. Good night."
"Stay; you must not go in alone. It is not seemly;
besides, you fear "
" My lord, my fear is dead ; I am myself again — my old
self."
Only a Music-Master. 657
"Horatia!"
"My lord!"
44 Nothing. You had better take my arm, Horatia."
"As you will."
" To-morrow I shall be calm and able to discuss our
affairs — yours, I should say."
They walked on in silence. He led her into the house,
up the stair-case, to the door of their chamber. She entered
alone, and stood irresolute. The door remained opan, —
Selmore stood still, and gazed upon her with a mournful
tenderness that would have touched a heart of stone, so
full was it of love, pity, sorrow — sorrow so deep that it
drowned reproach. Horatia was touched, — how could she
be other. At that moment she loved him, whom in her
heart she had always honoured.
" Herbert ! " — her lips faltered, and she turned to rejoin
him.
" To-morrow," said Lord Selmore, as he closed the door,
" to-morrow."
He was gone. Lady Selmore sank on a sofa, no longer
fearing to be alone, but bewildered with conflicting emotions ;
but the one thought ever floating on the surface, even amidst
grief, shame, and despair, was — Valerio lives ; and truly had
she said she would give all the remaining years of her life
to ransom his.
But to-morrow ! What would to-morrow bring forth ?
Would she be cast forth to shame and obloquy ? No.
Selmore had said he would shield her fame, and his words
were truer than other men's oaths, his bounty and generosity
had no rival but Providence.
The Countess fell into a troubled slumber, waiting for the
morrow, and in that sleep she saw the lover of her youth
clad in shining raiment, a crown of unfading flowers on his
hair, and he wandering by a clear river singing gloriously
of undying youth and happiness.
She dreamt that she stood on the opposite and far-off
bank of the river, and would have plunged in that she might
go and share his happiness ; but a cloud rose up between
her and the fair vision — a stern voice bade her stop — a cold
hand was laid on her arm, the hand of a powerful man. She
658 St. James's Magazine.
looked up in his face while the celestial music grew more
and more indistinct, and it was the face of her husband,
but marble pale, and fixed as in death. The impression of
the dream was so vivid that Horatia woke with a piercing
cry. She rang hastily, and enquired was Lord Selmore in ?
He had not been seen. The day was dull and cloudy. The
early hours of the morning passed away, and Lord Selmore did
not appear. The household became anxious, the more so
as the harassed expression which the face of the Countess
bore led them to think she suffered from uneasiness she
would not express. " He has gone to London to consult
his lawyer, or some friend," thought Horatia, and perhaps
they were even then talking of her, and the man of business
was in business tones discussing how she should be able to wipe
clean the escutcheon of the house of Selmore, dishonored
by its chiefs marriage with one who had forgotten a woman's
first duty.
A. sudden thought crossed Horatia' s brain — what if she
employed the hours of her husband's absence in destroying
whatever trace remained of her connexion with Valerio.
The old letters, the miniature, the once precious relics she
would not formerly have given for a king's ransom. She
knew she could have laid her hand on them had it been in
the 3ark ; they were all gathered in the old cabinet in the
inner part of the so-called haunted chambers. Selmore
only knew of the old dead story, an ugly page in her heart,
to be sure, but the evidence of the worst might be de-
stroyed ere he returned.
She flew to the old precindts, dead to everything but the
one imperious necessity of defending her fame. The door
was locked as usual, and it seemed to her that the key
which she usually bore grated in the lock as if from rust.
Ah, she was in the old, old place, strange, yet familiar :
dust had accumulated on the furniture, on the wainscot
and floor, only here and there impressed by a something
she could scarcely tell what. She looked nearer and could
hardly repress a cry. There were distindt footprints. She
knew that Valerio lived ; old superstitious fears, long nur-
tured, still clung around her, such superstitious fears as
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Only a Music-Master. 659
most frequently assail those who are utterly destitute of
religious convictions.
She hesitated ere she entered the inner chamber in which
she had been accustomed to receive Valerio's visits in a
time that now seemed so long, long ago. She almost ex-
pected him to confront her there ; yet he had loved her
well. Surely, living or dead, he would not injure her. Sud-
denly she stood still, pale and mute, as if no longer imbued
with the breath of life. A man, dressed in a travelling
cloak, was seated in a chair with his back to Lady Selmore,
his head was bowed down on his arms, as though he had
fallen asleep, and those arms rested on the open front of
the cabinet.
" Valerio ! " was the first thought that darted across the
mind of the Countess. " Valerio," the first name that rose
to her lips, but there was no answer. She drew nearer
and recognized Lord Selmore. His hands grasped the open
letters of Valerio. His heel rested on the fragments of
Valerio's miniature. His face, as far as it could be seen, was
proud and stern, but the high soul that had animated the
clay had fled. Too brave to rush on death rather than live
to suffer, too noble to leave his own name sullied, or life's
duties unfulfilled, Selmore had died of a broken heart ; the
jury said " by the visitation of God."
And in his death he had won that which living had been
denied him.
The heart of stone was melted. Horatia loved him with
a love approaching worship, as she threw herself on her
knees before the inanimate form. She dared not press her
lips on the cold hand of the sacred dead. She recognized
the full extent of her own unworthiness in the presence of
his true nobility.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
NEMESIS.
A twelvemonth elapsed, and the world was busy talking of
Lady Selmore as the beautiful young widowed Countess,
66o St. James's Magazine.
mistress of a splendid fortune, left her unreservedly by her
noble husband. There was no heir-at-law, and the title of
centuries was extinA ; the position of Lady Selmore was
trying — so young, so beautiful, so lonely, but her conduct
was so exa&ly fitting her station and circumstances that
from most people she won golden opinions. Her mourning
was deep, and the first year of her widowhood had been
passed in absolute retirement ; on entering the second year
she was still clad in deep mourning. Her beauty had ac-
quired added charms ; her air, a fresh dignity. The death
of Lord Selmore had been a great blow to her, doubtless,
still she breathed more freely than she had breathed, and
her life was no longer tortured with superstitious fears or
nervous apprehensions, however painful the remembrance of
the past.
She had spent her time from her husband's death on one
of his distant estates ; now affairs of importance had brought
her to the Manor House. All that concerned her dependents
had been well and wisely administered ; her charities had
been large and generous, though, as in former years, they
had chiefly been confined to the irreproachable, for Lady
Selmore felt that she had a chara&er to maintain, not only in
her own person, but as the sole living representative of the
noble house of Selmore.
The world was busy speculating on her destiny. In the
distance might be distinctly seen the coming crowd of
suitors, but how would she receive them ! The obtrusive
shadow of Valerio no longer darkened her path ; should he
ever appear again she thought she would now know how to
receive him, and to silence his importunities. At all risks,
Horatia would maintain her character before the world : at
all risks, but those of further guilt ; her sins had cost her too
dearly to be repeated. There was not tenderness enough of
heart and conscience in her for her to reach true repentance,
but henceforth she would avoid the torments of remorse.
Evening, autumn evening at the old Manor House.
* Horatia was sitting alone in the sunset hour, alone in the old
wainscotted hall with the oriel windows, at which golden
light streamed in and lit up Mr. Ormsby's vacant chair.
The fancy of the Countess conjured up the form of the
Only a Music-Master. 661
gracious old gentleman wrapped in a loose velvet coat,
which he had been wont to wear in the chilly evenings ; the
image was not one wholly painful, and it softened her
feelings momentarily. She was turning over the contents of
an old desk, unused since her girlish days. She came to
some objedl carefully folded in paper, like a precious relic,
opened the paper, and there fell on the table before Lord
Selmore's widow a card.
J LUIGI VALERIO,
PROFESSOR OF MUSIC.
Terms Moderate.
It was the very card Horatia had stolen from Ellen
Grantley in the beginning of a mad dream. Lady Selmore's
face was suffused with crimson. She still held the card in
her hand. A slight sound made her start from a painful
reverie. She looked up, and in the doorway stood Valerio ;
no airy phantom of the imagination, no creature from the
supernatural world, but a creature of flesh and blood,
slightly changed from the past, perhaps : a larger and more
fully developed, a more manly man, and bronzed by time,
but beautiful as Eros ever came to the dreams of a Greek
maiden. Horatia rose, but did not advance. She stood
leaning on the back of her chair — pale — her face set as a
flint, Valerio advanced, slightly bowing. He closed the door,
looked round the apartment, then drew a chair opposite the
Countess, and deliberately seated himself, leaning his arms
on the table, and gazing on her face in silence.
Nothing in him betrayed agitation. Horatia was the
first to speak.
" You have come, Valerio ; but to what end ? "
" To decide on your future fate."
"Mine!"
" Yes, yours, haughty Countess. Think you to live on i|f
purple and splendour, untroubled by one pang of remorse
for the past."
m
662 St. James's Magazine.
" You have no claim upon me, and if you had, it were too
late to assert it now. I do not fear you."
" You have feared me, nevertheless, Lady Selmore."
44 The fear is gone ; then do your worst, Valerio. I have
divorced the past from my remembrance, and torn from the
book of my life the only stained page."
"The only one?" asked Valerio, looking straight into
her eyes. The voice was strange, yet familiar; the look
more determined. There was none of the old love lingering
in the bosom of Valerio to inspire him with tenderness or
pity. The Eros had folded his wings, and in his place was
the armed Nemesis. "The only stained page?" he
repeated.
" Leave me," said the Countess, frowning. " Horatia
Ormsby's inexperienced years made her for a time your
dupe, your victim, but the widow of Lord Selmore defies
you. Leave me, sir ! "
" Never ! " said Valerio.
"Never!" repeated Horatia.
" No, never — until "
" Until when?" asked Horatia, with restrained passion.
" Name your conditions, with any I will comply to deliver
myself from the presence of a man who has become odious
to me."
"Not so fast, Lady Selmore, not so fast ; we may speak
of conditions presently. Meanwhile, you will acknowledge
this writing, those words to be yours, I believe."
" I will not. All the foolish words I wrote to you in my
ignorant infatuation were returned to me at your supposed
death."
"That was an ill-managed, awkward attempt at melo-
dramatic effedt, by the way," added Horatia, with a sneer.
"You think so?" said Valerio, coolly; "Pray look a
little more closely at this writing; perhaps you did not
count your love letters ; perhaps one might have been left
out of that parcel by accident, or — "
" By malice! " said Horatia, who recognized, indeed, a
letter she had written to Valerio in the height of her
romantic passion. Her eye fell on the words, "Thine
dear Valerio, in life and death, thine for ever!"
Only a Music-Master. 663
" By Heaven," cried Valerio, with a burst of passion,
" thou must, thou shalt remember those words."
" What would you have me do ?" asked Horatia.
" Repent, woman ! "
" Think you," cried Horatia, passionately, " that I have
not repented ? Think you that a proud woman like me
outlives her honour without the keenest anguish? Is it
well for you to remind me of my fault ? "
"It is well," said Valerio; "your fault! have you but
one to sting your conscience ? Search, woman, search well
in the dark chambers of your heart ; is there no accusing
image there? no voice to reproach you with worse than
frailty? Search, I say!"
Horatia shuddered, and covered her face with her hands.
" Look into your heart and conscience ; what do they say ? "
cried Valerio, with intense passion, approaching, and seizing
her wrist.
"Let go my arm, ruffian!" cried Horatia, suddenly
springing up ; "I will summon my servants."
"For what? To be witness of your shame? your
degradation ? "
" Of what do you dare accuse me?"
" Of — murder," said Valerio.
" Murder! " repeated Horatia, growing whiter as she
spoke ; " murder! — and you alive before me ? "
" Come, come, Lady Selmore, this is bandying words ;
would you have me bring in the servants of the law? drag
your purple and ermine through the mire ? brand the proud
name you bear with the accusation of a foul crime ? "
" Cruel wretch ! what would you have?"
" I have told you — your repentance."
Horatia stood some minutes irresolute, her face buried in
her hands ; then she drew nearer.
" Valerio, speak, you loved me once! "
" And you requited the love Valerio gave you with — hate,
his fond devotion with — treachery, his self-sacrifice with
—death."
" What would you ? what would you ? "
" Repentance — confession."
"Valerio, take my wretched life and let this strife cease."
664 St. James's Magazine.
" Confess !"
" I will rather die."
" No — you shall not die, you shall not escape. I am your
shadow, close to you as your own breath, till you confess.
M ark me, — here are more of your written words, ' Come to
me, beloved, this night without fail, you shall be at peace/
the date the night before 'the awkward melodramatic effedt'
you spoke of. Valerio obeyed your summons ; he went to
the rendezvous; what did he meet there? You received
him lovingly ; you spread a banquet before him ; you gave
him fruit and wine ; in the cup, — nay, do not start at the
word, the deed did not frighten you — in the cup there was —
speak, speak the truth ! "
"Poison!" gasped Horatia. "Luigi! Oh, Luigi! forgive
me. I shared the draught ; I meant to die, too ; I was mad
with despair, misery, jealousy! "
44 Jealousy! Of whom?"
" Oh, you know, that wretched woman they call Lottie."
" Lottie," repeated Valerio, staggering on to a chair as
he spoke.
"Yes, you know; you were with her in the park at her
house ; you know you were."
" I was there," groaned Valerio, "too true! too true!
and through me — for this — oh woman! fiend! fiend ! "
The stern man burst into a passion of tears and sobbed
like a woman. Presently he rose and stood in front of
Horatia.
" Look at me, Horatia Ormsby."
" I have looked."
" No, your soul has not looked. Examine me well."
" I do."
" Do you find no difference ? no change in me ? "
" No, only that you are cruel, and the Valerio of other
days was always kind and gentle."
" And generous and loving ? " said Valerio.
" Yes, loving and most generous. Oh, Valerio, be your
own self and forgive ! Leave me in peace ! "
" There is but one way for you to purchase peace."
" Name it ! name it ! "
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Only a Music-Master. 665
" Presently. Meanwhile, I charge you, note well if I am
the same fond fool that wasted his world of love on you."
Horatia looked intently at Valerio ; she pressed her hands
on her bosom, scarcely repressing the scream that rose to
her lips, while she exclaimed, " Do the fiends mock me ! the
same, yet not the same ! Who are you ? "
" Valerio's twin brother — his friend — his avenger ! "
" And Luigi ? " gasped Horatia.
" Sleeps still, the deep slumber that you gave him."
"For pity's sake say it's false; say he lives, though it
were to curse me ! " cried Horatia, throwing herself on her
knees before Luigi's brother.
" Would I could ! No ! No ! Too surely he is gone ; too
surely your cruel hand cut short the young, beautiful life in
its flowery spring, froze the warm joyous current of his
blood, hushed the sweet song upon his lips ! Heaven looked
on and seemed dumb, but it was waking. You, cold as
a marble image to the voice of God and Nature, strong in
your selfish pride, your seeming impunity, exhausted the
cup of pleasure, then ruthlessly dashed the crystal goblet
to earth and broke it, as you supposed, unheard, unseen.
But a mother, — an Italian mother's jealous eye followed
your every movement, your meetings in the still summer
evenings, your meetings by the winter's blaze in your own
chamber ; she witnessed the last scene, and the well simu-
lated fondness, the shared banquet, the wine cup drained,
the last words ; then came ' the awkward melodramatic
effect ' you spoke of, the black funeral, the lonely grave under
the dark shadows of the yew tree "
"Spare me!" gasped Horatia. "Spare me! I loved
him!"
" Loved ! dare you profane the holy word ? Is the mad
passion of the Tiger under the burning sky — love? Nof
woman — love slays not. It warms, it nourishes, it defends ;
exadls nothing, but pours out its whole being in sacrifice on
the altar of its worship."
" I tell you I was jealous."
" A poor defence — jealous love may slay itself, but the
thing it loves never! never! No, your passion had burnt itself
to ashes — its objeft, its living witness obscured your sunshine.
vol. 1. 46
666 St. James's Magazine.
You stretched forth your hand and blotted it out. You
carved out for yourself a grand fortune and a high destiny,
gave your doubly-stained hand to an honourable man, who,
but for you might have reached and adorned a career of
honour. He, too, is swept from your path ; God knows
whether by "
"You dare not accuse me of — "
" Oh no, Countess, I forgot he was a noble. My brother's
life was but the life of a poor music-master — the parish
organist. The two existences could not be weighed together.
And now you are rich, independent, still young, still
beautiful — beautiful enough to break some more men's hearts,
to put out the light of more men's lives. The world says you
are going forth into the world for splendid conquests, but
the Damocles' sword hangs over your head. The hair is
slender, lady ; shall I snap it ? or shall I fold my arms and
let you go forth to your work ? "
" Torture me, slay me, as you will, but spare my name.
He loved me, Luigi loved me ! "
"Alas, yes ; he did."
" And did he stand here he would bid you spare me, he
would. And for his dear sake you will be merciful."
" I will think ere I resolve. Meanwhile, I charge you let no
sound of merry-making be heard in this mansion. By heaven,
the rest of his grave shall not be so profaned. Clothe
yourself in no robes of pride, bind no jewels in your hair, sit
in silence and wait ; wait, here ! "
He walked slowly out of the room, still looking sternly at
the cowering woman who stretched forth her supplicating
hands towards him.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
HENRY TEMPLE TO ITHAMA.
" So your father is married again, my own one. The poor
gentleman has, at his mature years, been lured into the
imprudent marriage from which he so strenuously defended
Only a Music-Master. 667
his daughter. Your step-mother, though near your own
years, has no wish for your companionship; but your
loving heart still clings to the home of so many years, and
I can fancy all it feels and suffers.
" The cloud is dark, I know; but you have not yet found
out and seen the silver lining, which it surely has.
" You talk of going out as a governess, a companion, or
I know not what, and I have no doubt you would do either
of those supererogatory works well and wisely ; but it must
not be. You have trusted me long and well — trust me yet
more, my Ithama, my darling.
" My mother has promised to give up the tea-drinking
and scandal of for a more genial atmosphere. Men
abuse this great town, and affedl to think it purgatory ;
but I have found out a little retreat, with enough of
greenery and flowers to cheat one into the belief of living
in the country, yet within reach of all that makes the
charm of a great city to me, its treasures of literature and
art. The little house is prepared for my mother's reception.
I am fixed in bachelor lodgings till I am bidden home.
There is, in the above-named Eden, Anglice (cottage), a
chamber peculiarly set apart for a girl with grave eyes.
" She is a little, nay, very much, like the girl in Millais'
* Huguenots.' The chief feature in her fair face is tenderness,
and a gentle gravity. Do you know her? Talk to her,
Ithama, and tell her to come into this modest little
chamber, with rosebuds on the walls, and on the bookshelf
Tennyson and Longfellow, clothed in royal robes of purple
velvet, as such kings should be clothed.
" Come with my mother, Ithama; and as I know your heart
would break without them, you must invite as your guests
your youngest brother and sister. I especially desire to see the
little curly-headed cherub that nestled in your bosom, and
whose golden curls hid your blushes while you used to answer
so demurely, * Yes, Mr. Temple; No, Mr. Temple.' You say
the other young folks are at school. These two the bride will
willingly spare ; and when the time comes for them to return
home, we can make a thousand excuses for delay, can't we,
darling ? My own one, I have much to tell you, very much.
There is nothing to separate us now, if, when you have
668 St. James's Magazine.
heard all my story, you do not think me unworthy of you.
If, on the contrary, as I hope and believe, you will trust
your happiness in my hands, you shall be loved and honoured
by the devotion of a life.
" Till we meet I will give you but an outline of the
long, long history, that will fill many an hour when we are
together. You know my birth. My mother was one of
those Italian peasants whose dower of beauty is sometimes
fatal. My father was an Englishman of family and fortune ;
how the latter was dissipated I cannot say. I have neither
the right nor the courage to dilate on a father's frailties.
He brought myself and my twin-brother Luigi to England
when we were four years old. He married, you know how
worthily and well. Never did woman bring a richer dower
to her husband. But my father was not happy ; his nature
was not hard enough to have erred without remorse, and
presently he died, leaving Luigi and myself to his widow's
care and bounty. Ah, how the trust was redeemed !
" We were ten years old. It seems but yesterday Luigi and
I were playing in a green meadow when we lived at . A
woman, meanly clad, but rarely beautiful, accosted us one
day, speaking with the southern tongue that so soon betrays
its origin. She spoke, too, with that persuasive eloquence of
the southern people, and told us she wandered from a far
off beautiful land, to find a treasure here. Finally she told
us she was our own mother, and besought us to go with
her. Something inexplicable, it must have been Nature's
voice, stirred in my heart, but I did not yield. Luigi stood
leaning on my shoulder and pretending to be manly, but his
frame shook, and when he raised his own to the large dark
eyes, shedding tears like rain, his softer nature melted. She
led him away, and told me passionately I might go to her I
called my mother. It was a trying moment for a child of
tender years. I ran to our house in frantic haste, but Mrs.
Temple was absent on business; she was detained, and
though dire<5tly she returned every effort was made to trace
the fugitives, we never succeeded in finding the lost Luigi.
This was the first grief of my life. It may be that twins
are more closely united than other children of the same
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Only a Music-Master. 669
parent, it may be that there is only one soul between them,
but I never forgot my brother.
" I grew up with his memory in my breast, still nourishing
the hope that in manhood I might travel and find him
out. Oh, what a series of romantic adventures I wrent
through mentally, — the end of each imagination painted
as one meeting ! For a while the absorbing thought of
your love turned my attention from these dreams, then
came my journey to London. Here my old dreams of
Luigi seemed to take a stronger hold on my imagination.
I felt a presentiment that we should meet. I walked
through the public thoroughfares eagerly gazing on each
young man's face that I met. I frequented the parks, the
theatres, the common haunts of young men; I had no
reason to believe him in London, but I felt sure we should
meet ere long. Just then a beautiful woman crossed my
path. I told you of her ; I did not admire her as men do a
fair woman, but she fascinated me, she held me with her
glittering eye. I had a feeling, a superstition, that there
was a link between her being and mine, but I shuddered
while I thought thus. Then came my meeting with
another woman, whom I had once known in her more
innocent days. She was erring. I, proud in my own
strength, tried to convert her; but well Ithama, I
will not dwell on that. I loathe her memory, but I love
you the more for having seen and known her. It cannot be,
but that a jewel gains by contrast with a coarse counterfeit.
" To return to my rugged story. While I went through
this busy world seeking my brother, another woman crossed
my path ; one beautiful, but aged, and broken, and clad in
the garb of woe. Ithama ! It was my mother ! my own
poor mother, from whom I had, perhaps harshly, turned in
my childish pride and ignorance. She knew me at a
glance, she said; she told me she would take me to my
brother. I followed in eager expectation, but instead of the
warm-beating human breast I thought to meet mine, she
led me to a grave.
" Luigi, young, beautiful, generous, gentle, and loving, as I
had never been, cut off from the tide of human life.
" But the means ! We thought we saw the hand, but c
670 St. Jantcs's Magazine.
evidence was shadowy ; we groped in the dark. Day and
night, for more than two years, I followed up the track.
My newly-found mother was fast fading away from earth.
I bore her to her native sunshine. Meanwhile I had, at
intervals, seen and watched the fair woman of the glittering
eye. I knew, for certain, that she had loved Luigi, loved
him with the coarse passion that passes by the holy name
of love. I saw she dreaded my presence. In time I
became convinced that she mistook me for him, and that
her superstitious fears were worked upon. I was well. I
lost sight of her for a whole year, though I had followed
and noted every step of her life. My mother faded day by
day. Finally I closed her eyes, and, urged by her last breath,
returned to England, and sought the Countess, wrung
from her the confession that, — but, Ithama, I cannot put
the thing in words. I cannot yet show you the shadow this
wretched woman has thrown over my life. I believe and
hope, if my human pride does not blind me, that I have
done justly. If it be not so, may Heaven forgive me for
arrogating to myself a right I have not.
" Come, Ithama, come, and by your gentle presence soften
this rugged nature. Come; I trust the storms are over;
that days of quiet happiness are before us. I must talk
to you of my lost, gentle Luigi. I have his portrait,
received from my mother ; you might take it for mine, only
it is a gentler, purer face, with a more loving, tender
expression. He was a son, indeed, whose devotion to his
mother made up for years of sorrow, loneliness, and deser-
tion. When once I found and knew her, when once I
subdued the remembrance of the disgrace attaching to my
birth, I hope I did my best to soothe and make her happy ;
but a blow had been struck at the very roots of her life
when her fairest and best-loved son was snatched from her,
and she died.
" I must tell you that, though I threw up my employment
to devote myself to discovering and avenging my Luigi's
death, I have not been idle. I have pursued such employ-
ments as I could find — chiefly literary. Now I have a
regular occupation connected with one of the papers, better
Drospedts are before me. I await you with impatience, my
Only a Music-Master. 671
love, my own, to whom I never wrote a real, orthodox love-
letter, but whom I love with all my soul, with a love that
stands on the firmest reverence and faith, pillars that can
never be shaken."
CHAPTER XL.
A NEW INSTITUTION.
Always in extremes, always extraordinary, the world said.
The Countess was quite true to the charadter of Horatia
Ormsby in its eccentricities and singularities, if not in its
severity. A thousand reports had flown about the country
as to the intentions and probable destiny of the beautiful
widow. She had been re-married, by anticipation, again
and again. The eyes of the envious were fixed on the least
movement of Lady Selmore, but all at once, instead of
their seeing her burst forth on the world in the splendour
of her rich widowhood, her acquaintances were startled by
the intelligence that her life and fortune were to be devoted
to a charitable institution, of which she would be at once
the foundress and directress.
At first the report was treated as a mere fable, but ere
long the Old Manor House assumed something of a monastic
appearance, and the lady of the mansion was seen in the
plainest of black garbs ; no affectation of that pretty
becomingness at which the Sister of Charity aims, no
rosary nor crucifix, no snowy coif and kerchief, but a high,
tight dress of one unwearied, sombre black, and a bonnet
apart alike from taste or fashion. No veil to hide the
deathly paleness of her face, which wore a fixed, determined
expression ; the beauty there was striking even to the
most casual observer, but the owner seemed utterly indif-
ferent either to admiration or curiosity. She went about
her occupations coldly and mechanically, yet with a certain
method and fitness that showed she would do well what-
ever she undertook. Presently the institution opened.
It was a refuge for young women, for such as had for
672 St. James's Magazine.
feited their right to sit by the hearthstone of father, or
husband, yet who shrunk frightened from the thorny patfi
of sin and shame on which they had entered.
Horatia Ormsby received the penitent with neither smile
nor frown. Soon the manor-house Refuge was filled, with
some who truly sought to hide their shame, with others
whose momentary good resolutions would shortly be shaken,
and who would weary of the restraints of an orderly
existence ; with others, again, who sought to impose on what
they believed to be credulous virtue, but when once they
had looked the lady superior in the face they slunk away.
Of course people were busy inventing some reason for
the strange course the Countess was pursuing, but they
arrived at no conclusion, beyond the vague supposition that
she was struck with religious melancholy. This supposition
was, however, in no way confirmed. The lady superin-
tendant might be careless of her appearance, not so were
all the penitents. Many obje<5led to the plain uniform dress
of the establishment, and nearly all refused to have their
hair cut. They occasionally smuggled a glittering glass-
brooch, or bracelet, or necklace into the establishment,
though the only satisfaction to the possessors must have
been the beholding ornaments with their eyes in secret,
which, alas ! other eyes might never admire on their persons.
It might have been that had holy charity received some of
the erring ones as they entered the portals of the Refuge,
had a gentle hand been extended to them, a loving, pity-
ing eye met their first glance, the Institution might have
flourished in true usefulness and blessedness. As it was,
there were some tired hearts and feet that had entered in,
asking only to be hidden and sheltered.
Well, the old roof-tree did not stand in vain if it
defended one such from the inclemency of the skies and the
severity of man. Horatia thought of none of these things,
unless as a matter of cold speculation. Her mind was fixed
on her own destiny, chosen or enforced. In time she might
grow accustomed to its privations and restraints; but would
she ever, could she ever, become reconciled to the daily,
hourly contact with the coarse vice she had always loathed?
-Vays — while she had dared — despised!
Only a Music-Master. 673
However that might be with her heart and mind, she
went on her way with an even step, seemingly, a step that
did not falter ; and if in the dead hours of the night, or of
loneliness, her old superstitious fears arose from the dungeon
of her heart, she kept them close bound when others were
near. The portress at her gates, placed there by some
secret hand that directed the whole affairs of the institution,
was Bessie Sparks, a living monument of the past, one
holding the key to the beginning of the mystery of Horatia's
life; but the young woman had lost her confidence and
assurance; she had grown grave and silent; she had
repented, and the last seal had been fixed to her penitence
when her uncle's green grave opened to take in the child
that till then had slumbered on her own warm bosom.
Among the refugees in the manor-house was one of more
education than the rest. She had talked long and loudly
of repentance, and for three long weeks her zeal had only
been damped by the mandate to cut off her thick yellow
tresses ; after the three weeks she thought herself a fright
in blue cotton, though her gown fitted better than those of
the other women. She had secreted a piece of looking-
glass in her pocket, which she frequently consulted ; she
thought her eyes and smiles were equally losing their
brightness, and she took occasion to speak to the superin-
tendent of her wish to return to town and of her dislike to
trees.
"You cannot go," said Lady Selmore, coldly; "I am
responsible for you to the person who placed you here."
" A bargain with you," said Lotty, regaining her old
assurance ; " Let me go and "
" Insolent wretch, have you no fear?" said Horatia.
" Fear ! not I. I suppose Lady Selmore, however sanc-
tified, has not forgotten past times ; if she has — "
"No; she has forgotten nothing," said Horatia, a few
shades paler; "go, woman! do as you will," and Lotty
skipped away,. frightening the echoes of the solemn mansion
with humming a light strain.
" Fallen ! fallen indeed ! " murmured Horatia through her
clenched teeth ; " yet so cowardly I dare not face the end !
Valerio, Valerio, thou art too well avenged ! "
674 St. James's Magazine.
CHAPTER XLI.
Lotty returned to London, and harder it may be for the
momentary pause in her career.
Men followed her with admiring eyes as she drove her
thorough-bred greys in the park. Women looked on her
with envy, and imitated her bold fashions and manners.
A little later, chance, or his evil angel, threw young
Bernal in her way. He had lately repaired his broken
fortunes by inheriting the property of an old uncle. Lotty
heard of his new accession of wealth, and remembered that
she wanted some new diamonds, so she lured him back with
her most artful smiles.
True, he had a young bride, who had been at his side two
short months, but that was nothing, or at best a trifling
obstacle. Lotty did not believe in hearts ; she had none ;
why should she believe others had ? So Lotty got her
diamonds and plenty of money from the young spendthrift ;
she went with him on a continental trip. Well, perhaps
the bride 'dried her tears, perhaps she died ; Lotty
little recked ! Lotty will not reck till she herself lies dying
on some narrow hospital bed, and through her fever dreams
pass in procession the victims she has sacrificed in order to
deck herself in silk and jewels !
CHAPTER XLII.
The sun shone out with a warm blessing on the head of
Ithama, as she knelt beside Temple at the altar of the little
suburban church in which they met to pledge their vows.
There was chastened happiness in her face, but the eye of
Henry was not untroubled, his heart not unclouded.
As he knelt before the white-haired priest, receiving from
his hand the pledge of his own earthly happiness, there
entered his heart a doubt that was almost a dread, as to
Only a Music-Master. 675
whether Luigi had been truly loved and honoured by the
vengeance he had meted out to the beautiful destroyer. He
had thought himself merciful to spare her life, but had it not
been a refinement of cruelty to condemn her to a living
death ?
" You are sad, Eurico," said his fair bride as they left the
church.
"When the heart is too full of happiness the shadow
always comes," said Temple. " Ithama, my beloved, I will
open the most secret chamber of my soul to you this night :
you shall read all that is printed there ; look well in the face
of all its images ; efface what you will ; overthrow all you
will ; Ithama, the proudest man is a poor thing alone, till
God puts beside him a visible, speaking conscience, in the
form of a pure, loving woman."
CHAPTER XLIII.
HORATIA TO VALERIO'S BROTHER.
" Your offer of — what shall I call it ? — pardon — respite —
comes too late. You say it was moved by the tender pity
of your young wife; thank her for one who has seldom
humbled herself to a mortal — never to a woman.
" I have your permission to depart hence, to journey to
a foreign country, to leave all the past behind. For a
moment I caught at the idea with avidity, and eagerly as a
prisoned eagle. I snuffed the air of coming liberty; but
my wings soon drooped. No, sir, my place is here. I
have not repented ; mine is a hard, cold nature : it can
know no selfish fear ; it is a stranger to repentance. If there
be such a thing, if the transformation of such a granite
nature as mine be possible, I will await the miracle on this
spot, and near his grave.
" He was ever generous and gentle; his pardon outstripped
almost the speed of an offence. Sir, he loved me well. If
there be an eternity, such love must be immortal, and is
still mine. Perchance his pity points to somec angel
676 St. James's Magazine.
messenger, who may be commissioned to save me. I have
been much alone of late ; I have thought and pondered;
my whole life has been a blind chase of phantoms. Here I
have reality, hard and cold, like myself, but still reality.
I have one spark of happiness in my dark and self-made
lot : he was faithful to me, faithful in life and death.
" Continue, without scruple, to make known your wishes.
I will fulfil them. I do not suffer, I am too hard, too
proud to suffer. Have no remorse.
" The new clergyman and his wife have been to see me.
He is a good, weak man, and she — she was once Ellen
Grantley. She also loved your brother, sir, but feebly, as
such natures can. Does she forget him now, as she walks
beside the sleek priest ? I suppose so. I wTould forget him,
too, but for the voice that cries, night and day, in my ears,
" Remember ! "
" Once more, sir, have no pity — no remorse. A goodly
vengeance should mark the fate of — Luigi. One thing I
will add, could the grave give back the dead, I feel now
that I should be capable of becoming the slave of Valerio,
of whom I once dared to speak as ' Only a Music Master.' "
Digitized by VjOOQlC
Ritualism
Considered as an Antagonism to Rome.
|T has been remarked by more than one philosopher
of the present generation, that we are reaching, or
have already reached, an epoch in the history of
civilization, when the various systems of doubt, belief, and
speculation which engage mankind, are rapidly crystallising
into sharp antagonisms, virulent with mutual animosity and
aggression. A time appears to be approaching when no man
will be allowed to remain an indifferent spectator of warring
creeds and parties. Blindly or intelligently, hypocritically
or honestly, he will be forced to enroll himself under one
banner or the other, and fight manfully in defence of his
adopted principles.
The chaos into which our western civilization was thrown
by the convulsions and disorders which closed the last, and
ushered in the present, century, has, since the major pacifica-
tion of Europe, been painfully endeavouring to resolve itself
into its original elements. The various mental affinities have
been gradually, but surely, clustering round their central
points, like the molecules and atoms of the material world. The
challenge of unbelief rings proudly through the land, and is
answered by the clarion of the armies of Faith. Never was
scepticism so bold. Never was it so cool, so cautious, so
learned, so methodical, so courteous, so provokingly in-
different to the assaults of the prophets and apostles of our
latter days. It leads after it a host of shrewd though unculti-
vated minds, having no hold upon the past, no reverence
for antiquity nor tradition, and who regard a bishop as a
decidedly overpaid public servant, entirely obsolete in funftion,
678 St. yatnes's Magazine.
and completely amenable to their unceremonious scrutiny and
animadversions. On the other hand, never were the cham-
pions of belief so pure of heart, so single of purpose, so
utterly blameless in their private lives. It is not now, as in
past days, the onslaught of a fierce, rebellious infidelity upon
a corrupt and hypocritical clergy. It is honest doubt
looking with cold, dispassionate eyes upon the glowing
enthusiasm of a Christianity purified and quickened — in its
moral nature at least — by days of fiery persecution.
Among all the signs and tokens of a quickened faith
putting forth its arm to stay and smite the giants of infi-
delity, the rise and progress of the Ritualistic movement
in the Church of England is the most remarkable and the
most interesting. Other religious movements are easily
explicable, like spiritualism, mesmerism, and such pheno-
mena, on the ground of the sympathy of excitement ; but
to explain the present tendencies of a large portion of the
English people towards a mediaeval faith and ritual, requires
another and longer method of reasoning.
First springing into being in the fervent brains of a few
learned and enthusiastic youths, whose minds were imbued
with ecclesiastical tradition and intoxicated by the dim
splendour of antiquity, this movement — under its various
names of Puseyism, Tradtarianism, and Ritualism — has
developed into proportions which threaten to bring about
the disruption of the Establishment in whose bosom it has
been conceived.
The originators of this new religious development, like
all other innovators and founders of systems and creeds,
were men who were unconsciously big with the spirit of
the age. They were leaders of the movement only because
in them more than in other men, their wants and aspira-
tions took a vivid and tangible shape. As in every other
stage of the world's history, when men were stirred to the
beginning of some great social or religious movement, the
very manifestation of their own aims and desires was, to a
vast multitude, a revelation of the true nature of desires
which were before but vague and indistindl heavings of the
public mind ; and so the young and clever enthusiasts of
Oxford found an audience only too ready to listen to, and
s charmed by, the first notes of their new evangel.
Ritualism. 679
In every wealthy nation there must of necessity be a
large class of persons who, by the mere fadt of their riches,
are set free from the yoke of servitude and labour, and
whose time is chiefly passed in pursuits more or less refined
and intellectual. Such persons are peculiarly sensitive to
the influence of the fine arts, even in religion. Their
imaginations being quickly excited and sustained by the
poetic fidtions of genius, are ever vaguely aspiring after
ideals which the dull, prosaic life of the every-day world
does not and cannot realise. Upon them the charms of
music, of colour, of posture, of perfumes, in all their exqui-
site possibilities of combination and variety, exercise an
influence which penetrates to the very inmost recesses of
the soul. They are possessed by a love of ceremony and
pageant which is ever clamouring within them for indul-
gence. The atmosphere of courts and palaces, and all the
dazzling insignia of rank, are almost necessary to their
existence — certainly to their happiness. Such people will
naturally be influenced by their predominant tastes even in
choosing a religious system to satisfy their spiritual cravings.
The feelings of ceremonious respedt and formal homage
which they pay to an earthly sovereign, will be to them
the measure and guide for their demeanour towards a
heavenly King ; and in their temples they will love to see
a sublimed and allegorical imitation of the pageantries of
a temporal court.
This is peculiarly the case with the English aristocracy.
It is notorious that they almost as a body resisted that
reformation of worship which it was the design of the
zealots of continental Protestantism to introduce into the
Christian Church in Europe. The aristocracy, from the
very nature of their tastes and sympathies, were the main
props — the buttresses of the old ecclesiastical system. For,
as it has been well observed, th.e aristocracy, by the very
conditions of their existence, must, as a body, be ever averse
to innovation. It is not merely a question of loss or gain
with them ; it is a question of convidtion, strengthened by
taste and habit. Their most pleasurable emotions are
(as Buckle puts it) connected with the remote past. Their
highest honour, their chief glory, is derived from their long
68o St. James's Magazine.
lines of ancestry, from their ancient patents of nobility,
from the deeds of their house in bygone days. So long as
these things are held in remembrance and esteem, so long
will they themselves be held in honourable respedt. But
when the memory of these things is suffered to decay, or
is treated with contempt, then will they also fall into dis-
esteem, and no longer be regarded as the salt of the earth.
Naturally, then, the aristocracy would look with disfavour
upon a system which had for its avowed object, not only
the curtailment or absolute abolition of the pomp and
pageantry in which they so much delighted, but also the
uprooting and destruction of that love for antiquity and
reverence for tradition which was the source of their own
glory and renown.
It follows from this, as a natural consequence, that such
a class would make common cause with a priesthood, whose
power was built upon the crags of ancient myths and
traditions, and whose influence was chiefly derived from an
imposing ceremonial splendour and display. Unable, how-
ever, to stem the tide of popular feeling, against which
thrones and powers must ever contend in vain, the English
aristocracy were constrained, for their own personal preser-
vation, to hide their resentment, and exhibit an outward
conformity to a system which must eventually destroy their
ancient power and prestige. They saw themselves during
a brilliant period of their country's history excluded from
that direction of State affairs to which they had for centuries
been accustomed ; and they, therefore, nourished in their
hearts a profound contempt for, and resentment against, a
system which was fit only for an ignoble populace without
ancestry or escutcheon. This resentment they handed
down to their children, and, modified by altered tone and
circumstance, it was fiercely apparent in the demeanour of
the cavaliers, who, without a particle of religious faith in
their souls, made Church and King their battle cry. It was
natural and convenient for them to connedt everything sub-
versive of Kingly authority and aristocratic privilege with
a bald and sullen creed which trampled on tradition, and
held antiquity in contempt. The Stuarts, and their most
faithful ministers, saw clearly enough, that with the abolition
Ritualism. 68 1
of ancient ceremonies, and the destruction of long-venerated
traditions, was linked the downfall of absolute monarchy
and the proud ficftion of the divine right of kings.
And it was not only the aristocracy that, as a body, was
wedded to the ancient faith. The lower orders of society
were prompted by equal motives of self-interest, as well as
by the superstition of ignorance, to cling to the Church of
their fathers. A religion which taught that the gate of
heaven yielded most surely to the generous hand of the
indiscriminate alms-giver, was a religion admirably suited
to the notions and necessities of the abjedl poor. Hence it
is that the opponents of the ancient Church were drawn
almost exclusively from the burgess class, who had nothing
to hope from the liberality of their superiors in the social
order, but had everything to fear from the retention of
aristocratic traditions, and vexatious and oppressive privi-
leges. The wealth and the practical intelligence of the
nation — though not its refinement and chivalry — were con-
fined within the bounds that encompassed the middle-class
of citizens, and they were determined to enjoy the one and
to exercise the other, without let or hindrance from priest or
peer. The same reasons which made the latter cling to the
old system of ecclesiastical polity, made the burgess turn
from it with fear and disgust. As the aristocrat sympathised
with the priest because the priest was the promulgator of
doctrines which were the safeguard of aristocratic rule and
predominance, so the burgess turned from priests and
priestly rites as foes that stood in the way of his freedom
and independence. Hence it was that the mere suggestion
of priestly rites filled him with fury. The bare insignia of
priestly pomp and aristocratic assumption made his blood
boil with indignation and fear, and he trampled the offensive
emblems under foot with every mark of scornful detestation.
His new religion in every external a<5t was made as different
from the old faith as he in disgust with ancient oppression
and superstition could make it. The most picturesque
rites and suggestive ceremonies were held by him to be
utter abominations.
It was not without a long and arduous battle that this
gloomy religion was enabled to subvert the glory of the
47
682 St. James's Magazine.
old-established ceremonial. Nor would it, probably, have
achieved its final success — fleeting and cruel though that
success was — unless a helping hand had at first been given
to it by the very class against which it afterwards so des-
perately fought. The nobles and the rabble, forced by a
display of kingly despotism to break from the moorings of
the Roman faith, were less grieved by the change, inasmuch
as the substitution of authority was for them an almost
imperceptible fact. Their accustomed ministrants and
ancient ceremonies were retained in all their original
splendour ;l and the only serious matter for the abject
classes was the sudden cessation of charity ensuing upon
the suppression of the numerous monasteries which had
formerly supplied the indigent with food.
By the time the face of the Church had begun to wear a
new and strange look to the devotees of the ancient faith,
the great mass of the people, steeped in besotted ignorance,
had grown quite indifferent to the claims of religion, and
were ready to change their ostensible creed at any moment,
at the caprice of their rulers. The lower orders took any
creed which the State ordered, and took it with perfect
equanimity ; and what they accepted from sheer ignorance
and apathy the aristocracy received from motives of per-
sonal safety, and from a desire of preserving their worldly
possession. But there was a middle class which did neither.
Having fled away to foreign lands to escape the faggot or
the halter in their own, they brought back with them at
every opportunity, and spread among their fellows, a spirit
of gloomy malevolence towards everything which savoured
in the slightest degree of the ancient system of worship.
The spirit of discontent and of fanaticism was flung abroad,
and imbibed by all whose interest or inclination tended
towards the destruction of ancient forms; and this spirit
was fostered by the tyranny and folly of those whose wel-
fare depended upon crushing innovation in the bud.
The malcontents grew in numbers. They commanded
the wealth and intelligence of the country, and, having
brought the nation under the yoke, they announced their
eternal separation from the superstitious past by the murder
of their lawful king. Their yoke was cruel and their burden
Ritualism. 683
heavy ; but the lower orders were too besotted to resist, and
the nobles were too cowed to help them. Then eventually
came a reaction. From the restoration of Charles II. to
the present day there has been a movement more or less
visible, but constant always, towards the traditions of the
past. It has been checked by the puritan zeal of such men
as Wesley and Whitfield, and it has been turned aside by
the virulence of political animosity, but it still moves, and
is moving towards the ancient forms and types. In the
excitement of Wesleyanism and the other preferred
varieties of protestant dissent, the lower orders, for a time,
lost sight of their goal ; but these bodies are now cooling
down into conventional forms and methods. Political ends
and purposes are now engaging the attention of those who
in other days were absorbed in class-meetings and con-
ferences. They have solidified also into respectability, and
have deposited that great residuum of poverty and rags
which in other days they stirred up to be the bulk of their
following. Once more we behold the spedtacle of the two
extremities of the social order exhibiting in common a
sympathy for long-despised forms and ceremonies. Again
we see the two extremities animated by precisely the same
feelings as in ancient days : the superior class looking back
lovingly to the glories of the past, deriving all its present
lustre from their pale reflection : the inferior class pinched
by poverty and toil, lifting their eyes hopefully to the
preaching of the third " Evangelical Counsel." The oppo-
sition comes again from the very class which afforded in
bygone days the fanatic soldiers of the Rebellion ; but the
Burgher's power, as a class, is less decisive now, for the social
line of demarcation has grown very crooked andblurred. Year
by year the social degrees are melting into nebulous prox-
imity, to the utter destruction of all boundary lines and
outward indications. The inferior aristocracy is melting into
the upper middle-class; the upper middle-class is aspiring
to the ranks of the inferior nobility. At the other end of the
social scale, the more thrifty of the working classes are
gradually rising and being absorbed into the lower middle-
class, and the latter, from various causes, declines insensibly
into the ranks below it. Thus the solid kernel of the
684 St. Jatnes's Magazine.
national wealth and intellect is surrounded by a nebulous
envelope, which conceals its true proportions, and hides the
line of demarcation, separating it from the superstition of
ignorance below, and the arrogance of aristocratic exclusive-
ness above.
Hence it is that the curious fadt of the ritualistic move-
ment of the present day being supported mainly by priests,
peers, and paupers, is hidden from the ordinary gaze, by the
apparent representation of every rank of society within its
temples. For the burgher of aristocratic tendencies, and
the aristocrat of business proclivities, the tradesman of
drunken habits, and the labourer of thrifty ways, are all
attracted towards the mediaeval revival in religion. Add
to this the interests of trade in aristocratic localities, and
we shall cease to wonder that the movement began from
above should have been able to pass downward through
the most practical and intelligent classes to find a following
among the very poor. Thus it is that in the middle of the
nineteenth century, with scepticism and infidelity rampant
in the land, with science working indefatigably in every hole
and corner of the earth, we find the spirit of the superstitious
and credulous Past rising in our midst, and threatening to
bring the nation once more beneath the priestly yoke. No
wonder a cry of mingled derision, hatred, and fear, is extorted
from those whose best interests are threatened by the
change.
The question for the intelligent portion of the nation to
ask itself, is: How far is this new movement dangerous to
us, and how far are we justified in interfering with it ?
We shall endeavour to provide an answer by furnishing a
few considerations which tend to prove that the new move-
ment is not dangerous to society if left alone ; that it may
even become beneficial as a preventive of a greater calamity;
and that, therefore, society, out of a regard for its own
welfare, should not endeavour to check and punish what is
a purely natural and harmless phenomenon.
The class sympathies and interests which we have glanced
at above are rendered still more determined by that aesthetic
development and progress which is so marked a feature of
the nineteenth century. Even the boldest puritan ritual
Ritualism. 685
would not now be considered complete without accessories
of music and ceremony, which the old Puritans would have
scouted with horror. Even the fiercest opponents of
Ritualism would not hesitate to declare that it is not against
the music and mummery as such that his indignation leaps,
but because he believes the senses are to be impressed in
the subtle design of leading the nation back to Rome.
There is the bug-bear — Rome ! A bug-bear dating from the
royal Henry's rupture with the Papal see, and rendered
more terrible and odious by the physical demonstrations
which later pontiffs were unwrise enough to countenance or
diredt against the liberties of the nation. The English
dread of Popery has been handed down from father to son
from the troubled days of Cranmer and of Bonner. The
opponents of Ritualism behold an outward resemblance
between the two forms of worship ; they perceive, as they
imagine, an identity of doctrinal development and of priestly
assumption, and they dread the enthusiasts as Romanists
in disguise. But a most significant facl in this controversy
has been completely overlooked, and that is the undisguised
hatred which Rome has for many years exhibited towards
the Ritualistic party in the Church of England. Rome has
a keen eye for an enemy, open or disguised, and it is evident
that she has' long recognized a formidable foe in the new
" Anglo-Catholic " revival.
At the commencement of the movement, thirty years
ago, much interested sympathy was displayed by the
Roman Curia towards the zealous band, who were supposed
to be earnestly striving to effedt a union with the Papal See.
But when it was perceived that only a few were driven over
by the storm of home persecution, and that the great bulk
of the party quietly subsided into the bosom of the " Anglo-
Catholic" Church, the Holy See began to fulminate. The
suspicion was aroused that here was a more dangerous
enemy to the ancient Church than the most zealous
Wesleyan, or the most bigoted Presbyterian. The Roman
authorities speedily understood that here was an outlet for
the aesthetic tastes of the people, which, without it, must
have flowed towards herself. By attending an Anglo-
Catholic service, an enthusiastic admirer of mediaeval riter
686 St. James's Magazine.
and ceremonies could indulge himself to his heart's content,
without incurring the difficulties of separation from friends,
or the odium attaching to an apostate from the Church
of the nation. • It was soon apparent that the design of the
Ritualists was not to merge themselves in the Roman
Communion, but to establish a church on the basis supplied
by the Prayer-book of an apostate age. While they drewr
their theology from the primitive fathers of the Church,
they had no notion of following the later developments of
Roman doctrine, but were content in all things to be
regarded as the true reformed Anglican Church. This was
sufficient to draw down Rome's serious displeasure. No
greater antipathy has ever been shown by the Roman See
than that she invariably displays towards the idea of
nationality in religious matters. She repudiates, with fierce
intolerance, all counsels that diredlly, or indiredtty, impugn
her divine, and universal, and supreme authority. Her
fiercest and most implacable conflicts have ever been waged
with those who, while adhering to her fundamental doctrines,
have used her own splendid ritual to captivate men's souls,
and lead them from her paths.
That this resentment has been incurred by the Ritualists
is easily seen in the tone adopted by the Roman Catholic
press towards the leaders of the Ritualistic party. It
rejoices over their difficulties and tribulations, and de-
nounces them, equally with the Puritan press, as impostors
and soul-deceivers. The Roman priests denounce them
from the altars, and solemnly warn their flocks against
their communion, while they exhort the Ritualists them-
selves to throw off the garb of false priests and enter the
bosom of the true Church. This feeling is seen also in
the stern repulsion which has been exercised towards all
members of the English Church who have endeavoured to
open up friendly relations with the ancient Church, on any
other grounds than those of absolute and unconditional
submission to her authority. This conduct on the part of
the Papal party would be desperately foolish and short-
sighted if the Ritualists were really doing the work of
Rome ; but she knows they are not. She deplores, with
"~ thetic voice, the thousands of souls which are kept out
Ritualism. 68 7
of her pale by the efforts of the Ritualistic parsons. Occa-
sionally a young Roman ecclesiastic may wink facetiously
as he reads of the vagaries of some prominent Ritualist,
and may exclaim : " These men are educating the people
for us ;" but he is speedily taught by his more experienced
and astuter brethren that he has no cause for congratula-
tion, but should rather mourn at the new obstacle opposed
to the Church's progress.
Nor have the Ritualists been backward in retaliating the
hard language. They, also, have lost no opportunity of
decrying the " Roman Schism," or of treating the Roman
ministers of religion as interlopers, labouring without
authority in a foreign vineyard. The spectacle may be
absurd enough ; but, nevertheless, it is deeply interesting.
It is both interesting and consolatory, as affording a proof
of the arrogant pretensions of the foreign Church, and of
the decided spirit of nationality in the home community.
The spirit of passive obedience, which is the main stay of
the Papal system, is utterly absent in spirit and intention
from the counsels of the Anglo-Catholics. Beyond the
taste for ecclesiastical millinery, for gorgeous music,
sumptuous pageantry, the one fact most clearly indicative
of the true spirit of the Ritualists is their utter disregard
for, and defiance of, all constituted authority. Each clergy-
man is a law unto himself, and where this liberty of action
obtains Rome can never prevail. Surely it is better to have,
instead of one infallible foreign pontiff, mighty in power
and prerogative, five hundred, or five thousand infallible
Englishmen, who will each lay down the law for himself, and
fight doggedly for unlimited liberty, to develop and ritualise
according to his own lights and fancies. There can be no
danger to the State from such men if they are left to them-
selves. Restrained by their own uncombinational spirit, and
the cool contempt of their more masculine and practical
fellow-citizens, they can never acquire, either political
power, or ecclesiastical denomination. But if by repeated
and vexatious persecution they acquire a factitious
importance in the eyes of the nation, they may be driven
to effect a thorough union among themselves, and so
become formidable to their adversaries and to the true
688 St. James's Magazine.
interests of the nation. They may even be driven to con-
sider the alternative of being utterly stamped out, or of
accepting a subordinate position in a proud and ancient
hierachy. If such men should ever be brought to the
conviction, that the only chance of indulging their cherished
fancies is to seek a refuge in the bosom of the Roman
Church, they will assuredly lead a great following of the
people with them, and the indiscreet ^eal of the Puritan
party will have delivered the country to the very danger
from which they had fondly hoped to preserve it. Nothing
can alter the fa£t, that the present tendency to Ritualistic
elaboration is the mental exemplification of the do<5trine of
physical reversion to a primitive type. If judiciously dealt
with it may pass away, or settle down into a system quite
innocuous to the political well-being of the country; but if
interfered with and " persecuted," the old spirit of English-
men will be aroused, and nothing but extreme mischief can
ensue. The " Anglo-Catholic Church" is now in decided
antagonism to her Papal rival, for her ritual and her
authority are borrowed from a period of history which
Rome shudders to contemplate. The great principle of the
Ritualists is the non-interference of Rome and the ere&ion
of a National Church after their own fashion. This may
be a chimera — it will assuredly prove a chimera, if the
projectors are let alone — and the ere&ion of such a
Church may be repugnant to the notions of educated
and liberal-minded men ; but when it becomes a question
between such a comparatively feeble structure, and the
splendid and astute politico-ecclesiastical system of Rome,
surely men cannot long hesitate to choose the former.
It is useless to say we want neither. We are in presence
of a growing exhibition of the public taste in favour of a
more highly ornate worship and a reversion to obsolete
usages, and it would be worse than folly to push our disgust
for assumed puerilities to the abyss of ecclesiastical sub-
version. The tastes of the people will be gratified — un-
reasoning and unmeaning as those tastes may be — in spite
of sarcasm and contempt, and more, much more, in despite
of penalties and persecutions. Let us not, in our hatred
of ecclesiastical domination, rush into the arm^Qbogl
Ritualism. 689
spiritual tyrant from which the nation has been long happily
delivered. Let not our contempt for the puerilities of
ecclesiastical pageantry inspire us to the commission of
deeds which may root those puerilities in the minds and
hearts of the people, and cause them to blossom into prin-
ciples to be defended even at the risk of spiritual liberty.
In what nations do we find the missioners of Rome mak-
ing the least progress ? In those nations, precisely, where
the national creed is most nearly akin to her own, and where
doftrine and ritual rival her own system in elaboration and
splendour. It is there that all her efforts are baulked, either
to advance her authority or to insinuate her principles. The
opponents of Anglo-Catholicism should remember this, nor
allow evangelical zeal to outstrip their political prudence.
We are not all Puritans or unbelievers. As we have seen
above, there is a large portion of the nation whose sympathies
dwell fondly with traditions of another age, and they will
never acknowledge the right of any other section of the
people to coerce their religious aspirations or convicStions.
An intelligent glance at the state of religion in Europe
presents the fadt in striking colours, that the balder, the
sterner, the more repulsive is any religious system, the more
chance has Rome of presenting her own glowing and
magnificent ritual with success. Where her foot once finds
standing room, she will never rest until she occupies the
whole land and has driven out all opponents. It is better
to have a superstitious Church, subjedt to the national will,
than to be encumbered by a superstitious Church depending
upon the breath of a foreign potentate. As the Greek Church
opposes an insuperable barrier to the advance of Romanism
in the Russian Empire, and as the various shades of
Armenian and Coptic ritual are her most formidable
opponents in the Orient, so the " Anglo-Catholic Church"
would be a fatal barrier to her march in England. Nay,
more : if the leaders of English Ritualism would but combine
to assume a definite organism, it is quite possible that they
might eventually entirely destroy the labours of the Papal
party in Britain. They might draw into their communion,
not only the host of recent converts who were forced out of
the pale of the English Church, through lack of the spiritual
(xjo St. James s Magazine.
food they craved, but also those old Catholic families who
feel acutely that their own glory is bound up with the
history of their country, and whose ancestors were entirely
content with the Church of Cranmer and Henry's Vice-
gerent.
If the opponents of this religious revival desire to
prevent even such a consummation as we have just
glanced at, their wisest course will be to let the Ritualists
alone, or laugh them down if they can. Persecution
will not answer with Englishmen. Either the bulk of
the English people are against Ritualism, or they are
for it. If the former, let it alone; if the* latter, let it
alone. Englishmen will not be treated as children and
preserved from danger, in spite of themselves ; nor will the
efforts of a Puritan, or unbelieving minority, prevail over
the national will, however fierce may be their denunciations
or zealous their efforts. Repression and extinction are not
the order of the day. If men are wise, they will read the
signs of the times aright, and prudently use the weapon
ready made to their hands against a foe they are ever
fearing. On the one side is the domineering face of Rome,
flushed and arrogant with the rule of centuries, and waging
battle against the pride of nationality and the spirit of self-
government. To face her is the " Anglo-Catholic Church,"
pointing, with head erect, to an unbroken transmission of
authority within her own pale, and repudiating with scorn
the dictates of a foreign bishop. Taking her stand on a
glowing wealth of tradition, she points to the splendid
structures which adorn the land, and says they were built
for our English ritual, and all our fathers did, and all we
desire to do, is to cast off the oppressive yoke of a foreign
Church, and be free spiritually as well as temporally.
Thus, then, the case stands. This is the attitude of the
two Churches of England and of Rome. Crush the party
iu the former, who desire to restore to their Church its
former doctrine and ritual, and you clear from the path of
Rome's army of pioneers the most formidable barrier, and
you will drive into the Roman pale thousands who else
would never enter it. That it is a serious thing to interfere
with the religious convictions of any considerable body of
Ritualism. 691
men, however absurd and puerile those convictions may be,
all history most abundantly testifies. The mischief of such
a course of procedure has been demonstrated so often in the
course of the world's growth, that it would be reasonable to
suppose men had at length learned the lesson of toleration.
But we find even in our own day that the cry of religious
hatred is as fierce, and its spirit as intolerant, as in the most
troubled times of the Church's history. All the inventive
and ferocity of denunciation which five-and-twenty years
ago were poured out upon the Pope and his followers, are
now reserved for the devoted party in the Church of
England, who are striving with innocent simplicity to
exorcise the fiend of unbelief by means of processional cross
and smoking thurible. Is this denunciation just or wise ?
We think it is neither. It is not just, because it fails to
take into account the antecedents, and sympathies, and
temptations of the offenders ; and it is not wise, because by
endeavouring to crush out the evil of Ritual, Puritanism is
doing the work of the foe it dreads the most. In triumphing
over its discomfited adversary here, the evangelical party
throws open the gates to a greater enemy, who will speedily
occupy the land, and crush the conquerors beneath her
imperious rule. Better the mild disease of Ritualism than
the full virulence of Roman domination.
Roger Quiddam.
Digitized by VjOOQlC
The Rain.
Rain, rain, mom till night, unceasing rain !
Listless I sit and watch the drops ;
I hear them beat on the window-pane,
And see them silver the blue house-tops.
There's rain without, and there's rain within,
I sit at the window and see it fall ;
I sit and watch, and verily sin,
For I wish that a flood might drown us all.
But yesternight, and my little love
Close to my throbbing heart I pressed,
To-day she has flown Kke a full-fledged dove,
Far from my warm and shelt'ring breast.
And the day is long, and sad, and drear,
The world all weeps for my love's return,
Yet my eyes refuse to drop one tear,
And back it rolls in my heart to burn.
There's rain in my soul, though my eyes are dry,
Yet the streams of grief more surely flow,
And the scalding flood is mounting high,
And Hope in the current is sinking low.
* * * * *
But Faith has come, like an angel blest,
And has rais'd my heart high o'er the stream,
And through the mist in the distant west,
A small star dartles its faint, bright gleam.
Then rain, rain on ; I bid you not stay ;
For the sun must break through those dark clouds :
My love will come with returning day,
And my soul will cast off its grief-sewn shrouds.
And I shall go loving my whole life long,
Through fair and foul, through sun and rain,
Whether weary or glad, my heart's own song,
Shall always end with a sweet refrain.
Diaitized by VnOOQlC
Horace Lennard. c
England's Colonial Empire.
The Imperial Policy of Great Britain. By Sir John Lubbock,
M.P. " Nineteenth Century." — March.
The Political Destiny of Canada. By Goldwin Smith.
" Fortnightly Review." — April.
HE marked changed which has occurred in the
public feeling of this country relative to our
Colonial Empire is one of the most noticeable
circumstances of the times. Not many years ago a certain
school of politicians maintained that England would be
better without any such dependencies — that her trade would
be as great, and her security improved, if she were not
encumbered with the duty of defending them. Fortunately
this opinion has died away, although it is still held by a few,
and occasionally finds advocates, as in the instance of Mr.
Goldwin Smith, late Professor of History in the University
of Oxford, the latest of whose works, published in the April
number of the Fortnightly Review, we have prefaced to this
article.
His opinion should be entitled to the greatest weight, not
only from his former position, but from the fadl that a
residence in the United States and in Canada ought to have
given him an opportunity such as is rarely enjoyed for
forming a sober and unprejudiced opinion on the subject.
We regret, however, to find that the preconceived ideas
which he had expressed in his work, "The Empire,"
published in 1862, seemed to have biassed his views, and
have led him to the use of arguments, the fallacy of which
must strike the intelligent reader. A tendency towards the
694 St. James's Magazine.
same idea may, we think, be traced in a very able paper,
contributed by Sir John Lubbock, to the first number of the
Nineteenth Century Review. It is there that this end is not
avowed — and we rather think that any such feeling would
be rejected by the writer — but this is the tendency of some
of his arguments with which we shall proceed to deal.
The leading and ostensible position in his able paper is to
disabuse the world of the idea that England is merely a
nation of shopkeepers, that she is actuated by no motives
above those of gain, and that she views the relationships
between herself and subjedt races with cynical indifference.
Of the wrongs of Ireland he makes short work, by
proving to demonstration that no financial grievance really
exists, that not a single tax is heavier in Ireland than in
England, that no tax is levied in Ireland which is not levied
in England, but that, on the contrary, Ireland is exempt
from several imposts which are enforced in England. All
this has been proved before in the House of Commons, to
the satisfaction of every one except the Home Rulers.
Sir John proceeds to show, which he does conclusively, that
for Educational and Police purposes a far smaller pro-
portion is collected from local rates in the former than in
the latter country ; that in years of distress many millions
have been lent to Ireland, which loans have subsequently
been remitted, and thus converted into gifts. That Govern-
mental Loans, for public and private improvements, are
made more liberally to the sister kingdom ; that hundreds
of thousands have been subscribed by private munificence
for Irish distress, and that exceptionally favourable laws
have been made for the people of that country. So far his
case is complete.
He is equally clear in his account of the emancipation of
the West Indian slaves, when £20,000,000 was voted by
Parliament to compensate the owners, rather than that a
system should be permitted to continue which was considered
to be immoral and unchristian. He might have added a
notice of the care taken to provide for the education of the
freed negroes and of their descendants, which has met with
such signal success, and promises in the next generation to
produce the most beneficial results. He is happy again in
England's Colonial Empire. 695
the instance he cites of the confidence reposed in us by the
Chinese. Hong Kong, which before our occupation was
inhabited by a few refugees from the mainland, has now
become the home of a teeming population, preferring our
Government to the rule of their native land. Singapore
affords another example. He has omitted the strongest case
which is to be seen just now in South Africa, in the different
estimation in which British rule is held by Zulus and
Kaffirs, from that which is felt by them in the Transvaal for
the government of the Dutch Boers. Few are aware of the
admirable system for controlling and educating the natives
which has been established in the Cape Colony, and of the
influence which has been exercised on the Zulus at Natal,
where the sense of the justice done by Lord Carnarvon
towards Langillablea has not been thrown away.
The most triumphant of his proofs is one so gratifying to
us as a nation that we cannot forbear to quote it at length.
It is that of the North American Indians in Canada, as con-
tradistinguished from the position of his red-skinned brothers
in the United States. While we are writing we read that
" Sitting Bull," with 900 of his tribe, has taken refuge
within our frontier, and that " Spotted Tail " had been
meditating a similar step. We, however, were not prepared
for, and can scarcely credit, the following statement by
Bishop Whipper, of Minnesota: —
" On one side of the line is a nation that has spent
£5,000,000 on Indian wars ; a people who have not 100 miles
between the Atlantic and the Pacific which has not been
the scene of an Indian massacre ; a Government which has
not passed twenty years without an Indian war ; not one
Indian tribe to which it has given Christian civilization ;
and which celebrates its centenary by another Indian war.
On the other side of the line are the same greedy, dominant,
Anglo-Saxon race, and the same heathen. They have not
spent a dollar on Indian wars, and have no Indian massa-
cres. Why? In Canada the Indian treaties call these
men ' the Indian subjects of her Majesty.' When civiliza-
tion approaches them they are placed on ample reservations,
receive aid in civilization, have personal rights in property,
are amenable to law, and protected by law, have school0
and Christian people send them the best teachers."
696 St. James's Magazine.
Such a tribute to the merciful justice of our rule is
gratifying alike to our philanthropy and to our national
pride. A colonial empire, thus founded and administered,
and blessed by Providence, with a prosperity but little
known in the mother-country, we shall presently find is
undervalued by Mr. Goldwin Smith.
We do not think that such an empire, and the mission
entrusted to the British nation, above all, others, of
replenishing and subduing the earth, is to be measured
accurately by consideration of pounds, shillings, and pence,
and therefore we cannot follow Sir John Lubbock's line of
reasoning as he proceeds. He clearly points out that
England has been involved in wars for the benefit of India,
which, in return, has borne no portion of the expense ; that
it is protected by a navy, to the cost of which it does not
contribute ; that not very long ago we were engaged in a
war with China, to protedt the trade in opium, from which
a revenue of £8,000,000 is derived by the Government of
India. This, undoubtedly, is true, and it would not be
unreasonable that a portion of the charge should be borne
by it, if such were possible. But it is well known that
already that country is taxed to the very uttermost ; that a
chronic deficit exists, which, with repeated famines, is more
likely to increase than diminish. Does Sir John Lubbock
think that the indirect advantage derived from our posses-
sion of India, and the duty thereby imposed upon us, of
civilizing 150,000,000 of human beings, which is rapidly
being accomplished, is worth such an occasional outlay on
our part ? If he does, to what purpose is this complaint ?
If he does not think so, the logical sequence from his
premises is, that we should be better without India, a
conclusion to which we think he himself would be slow to
come, and which would not be coincided in by the people
of this country, who are just now ready to shed their last
drop of blood, and spend their last sovereign, in order to
maintain the highway to it.
Still less do we follow him with respedt to some other of our
colonies. He makes a formidable statement of the expenses
incurred in bygone days, which do not now exist to nearly
the same extent, and he swells the account by debiting
England's Colonial Empire. 697
several charges against the colonies in a way which we
consider unfair. For example, he mentions the war with
China, relative to the lorcha " Arrow," which he says was
merely a Hong-Kong boat, manned by Chinese sailors, and
owned by a Chinaman. This war, he argues, was waged
to avenge the cause of Hong-Kong; but, in fairness, he
must admit that the war was undertaken for establishing
and securing the trade of Great Britain with the great
Empire of China, a trade which has, since that time,
developed itself to a large extent. The continued encroach-
ments and insults of the Chinese, culminating in the outrage
on the " Arrow," are well known to have been the real cause
of the war. Again, he alludes to the West African squadron,
as if it had been maintained for the use of Sierra Leone and
the Gold Coast Colonies, whereas the truth is, that not
only the squadron, but these colonies themselves were
established for the suppression of the nefarious slave trade.
So far was this expenditure from being made for the pro-
motion of colonial interests, it was for a time the cause
of the destruction of West Indian prosperity.
The Ashantee war, which he mentions as having cost this
country £1,000,000, was not waged on behalf of the West
African settlements, but to carry out our anti-slavery
policy. The New Zealand war, which, after all, only
cost £250,000 above what the Colonists themselves paid,
was carried on, because we, from philanthropic notions,
withheld the management of native affairs from local
control. As soon as this futile policy was abandoned, the
question was at once settled, without any expense to the
mother-country, and satisfactorily to the natives. It is
quite true, as he says, that England was mulcted under the
Alabama award for the alleged negligence of the Melbourne
officials in the case of the Shenandoah, which touched
at that port ; but we have reason to know that one of the
greatest blunders of that mismanaged business, was the non-
production of the Australian evidence, which would have
put a very different complexion on the official conduct.
He admits that Malta and Gibraltar^are imperial
fortresses, but he argues that a portion of their expenses
should be charged against India and Australia, as it ir
&<fi St. Julius's Mtt^ti:jun\
mainly to protect the trade with these countries that they
are of use. They were considered the keys of the empire.
and necessary to England's supremacy, long before the
Suez Canal was dreamed of. He ought, for consistency,
to have charged the £4,000,000, given for the Suez Canal
shares. He urges that the Crimean war was waged for
the sake of India. In short, every expense, not direftly
connected with the defence of the Islands of the United
Kingdom might, by purity of reasoning, be charged against
India, or some other dependency of the Empire.
We are at a loss to imagine why he alludes to the Sar-
dinian, Turkish, and Greek Loans, for which an English
guarantee was given. He admits that no loss was incurred
<»n the two first, and we cannot see why they are to be
brought into the account at all. He is equally unhappy in
< iting the Russo-Dutch Loan, which, it is specially recited,
was contracted to establish the Kingdom of Holland on the
general settlement of Europe at the treaty of Vienna.
Surely this was a European, not a colonial, objedt. The
only possible connection between this loan and the colonies
is, that the Cape of Good Hope, Demerara, and Borneo
were ceded to England as an equivalent for the financial
aid given by England to a European kingdom for a conti-
nental object.
He fairly states, giving dates, the annual military and
naval expenditure in which England has been involved by
the regular establishments in the colonies ; but it is to be
remembered that in this list, as also in that of the loans,
which he appends, the serious expense is for former years;
that the present charge is not one half of what it was five
years ago. He omits also to mention that a portion of it
is for our own convict expenditure in such places as Bermuda
and West Australia. We quite agree with Sir John Lubbock
in thinking that the connection of the colonies with the
mother country is most beneficial to the former. They, no
doubt, appreciate the advantage of a Court of Appeal, and
may sometimes be assisted in international communica-
tion, in embassies, &c, and also they may sometimes be
benefitted by the general superintendence of the Colonial
Office. They also doubtless feel a pride in the dignity of
ie Crown. As far as these go, and to a certain extent
England's Colonial Empire. 699
towards the defences of the colonies themselves, we think
that he establishes his case that they should be invited to
contribute. Our criticisms have been more directed to the
exaggeration of the amount of taxation which he argues has
been entailed upon us by our foreign possessions. It is
idle to argue that Great Britain, whose export and import
trade is nearly £700,000,000 per annum, has no dire<5t
interest of her own in the possession of such places as Aden,
Cape Horn, Bermuda, Hong Kong, Gibraltar, Malta, and,
indeed, of most of our colonies. This makes her mistress
of the seas, on which her commerce is conducted, with
harbours in all quarters of the world, and coaling stations
for her ships, which have become essential in times of war.
But here arises the practical difficulty with which this
question is surrounded. The claim of this right of taxa-
tion cost us our noblest possessions exactly 100 years
ago. We can have no fear of a similar result as long as
the calm and conciliatory Lord Carnarvon is Secretary
for the colonies. In a most temperate despatch, which
speaks for itself, he suggested a small contribution by the
Australian Colonies when they petitioned for the annexation
of Fiji, and the replies, we do not hesitate to say, were not
creditable to those colonies, or encouraging to a repetition
of such a request. Lord Carnarvon writes : —
" It would be obviously undesirable in a matter where
the grace of the adlion depended on its being voluntary, and
where the amount involved was so small, that it would be
mainly valuable as proving the readiness of the great
Colonies to accept their membership in the common duties
of the empire, to put the slightest pressure upon any one to
make their joint contribution. It was, as I explained in my
former despatch, principally to give trial and effe<5t to the
principle of joint adtion among different members of the
empire in such cases, that I invited co-operation in a matter
in which the contribution proposed was so inconsiderable
as to make it practically immaterial, except in connection
with such a principle, whether the arrangement should be at
once carried out."
The result was, as we have said, tl'dt Reassuring if a
request were made for a much more extended contribution
700 St. James's Magazine.
pulsory it would be necessary first to establish some mode
of representation of the Colonies in the Imperial Parliament.
Taxation and Representation always must go together.
The statesman of the future who can effe<5t this, will, indeed,
inaugurate an Imperial policy worthy of Great Britain, or,
as it then would be, of the British Empire. It is evident
that some such arrangement must be made in course of
time. Judging from the past rate of progress, both Canada
and Australia will, ere many years, outnumber this country
in population ; and from their size will probably greatly
exceed her in material prosperity. Sir John Lubbock's
arguments will then tell with renewed force. The existing
state of things will in time have become absurd. Timely
legislation may bind this empire together for ages : an error
of judgment may precipitate a crisis.
But if we are somewhat in doubt as to what the tendency
of Sir John Lubbock's arguments may be, we regret that
none whatever can be entertained as to those of Mr. Goldwin
Smith, late Professor of History in the University of Oxford.
His sentiments were undisguised in a wfork called the
'* Empire," which he published twenty-five years ago, in
which he advocated " Colonial Emancipation." He was
doubtless surprised, but not disheartened, to find that the
Colonies had no wish whatever for " Emancipation," and
received the proposition with scorn. They knew their owti
interests too well to throw away all the advantages pointed
out by Sir John Lubbock as enjoyed by them. Mr. Goldwin
Smith's predilections led him from Oxford to an American
University. There is no accounting for tastes, but this
does not seem to have suited him any better, for after a
short residence he again moved and settled in Canada,
where he established a newspaper, which, we have heard,
did not take with the Canadians. We mention these fa£ts
from no spirit of disparagement ; on the contrary, we feel
bound to admit that he has had full opportunity of forming
a mature judgment ; and as he is a man of ability, we should
attach weight to his conclusions, if we did not see that such
conclusions did not at all follow from his premises — that,
in fadl, " the wish was father to the thought." He does not
conceal his opinion that distant Colonies are not a source
>f strength, but of danprPr fn TTno-lon/l tj*
nnnniinnjio
England's Colonial Empire. yoi
authoritatively that the independence of Canada is a
certainty, but goes on to assert that " Canadian nationality
is a lost cause never to be revived." We should infer from
this contradiction that possibly its connection with England
might continue. Not so, however, the professor. He argues
that as " separation is a certainty," — that as Canadian
" nationality is dead," ergo, there must be an union with the
United States. Let us analyse a few more of his state-
ments which appear to us anything but conclusive. He
admits that " at present the connedtionist sentiment is
dominant;" that no opposition to England, or wish for
disruption, " finds expression on the platform or in the
press." He owns that " the existence of any other opinions
can only be inferred from reticence, or discovered from
private intercourse." Who, then, has given him any
authority to contradidt the unanimous testimonies of
governors, of public meetings and addresses, of statesmen,
of journalists, and of all the recognised modes of expressing
public feeling. His private intimacies can have been but
very limited. The " reticence of his friends " looks as if
they mistrusted him ; and, in any case, is but a very sorry-
foundation for such a sweeping conclusion.
He supports his views by the argument that all the
" great forces" are in favour, first of independence, and
ultimately of annexation, while the " smaller forces," which
have so far produced unanimity in the opposite direction,
are likely to diminish. He contends from the fa<5t that the
United States broke off from this country, and that the
Spanish South American Colonies revolted ; that, therefore,
Canada will follow their example. But he omits to say,
that in both these cases it was gross misgovernment which
caused such a result, and he admits that nothing of the
sort is likely to be repeated by England, whose fault is
more likely to be that she will never interfere at all. He
discants on the disintegrating forces at work in England,
the relics of the feudal hereditary system, the confli<5t of
birth with successful enterprise and education ; but he
owns that none of these exist in Canada, from which we
should have concluded that there was all the less reason to
form a disintegration of the dominion. His next reason
is that the native born race is increasing, which may * j
joj 67. J times' s Magazine.
naturally supposed will be less attached to the mother
country than those who have emigrated from it. Even if
this were true, it is no reason to conclude that they would
wish to sink their individuality by union with the United
States; and "a separate nationality," he says, has gone for
ever.
He lays much stress on a didtum of Earl Derby to the
eife<5t that " Canada must soon be independent," but it
appears in the next sentence that this was said many years
ago, and, as his lordship tells us, he has since altered his
mind, we claim the benefit of that opinion as in favour of
our view, and as against that of the Professor. He proceeds
with considerable force to ridicule the possibility of an
Imperial confederation of the British Empire. Possibly this
may prove to be practically impossible, but the very pro-
posal of it is an indication of the present bent of the
popular mind. He argues with force against the possibility
of effecting the confederation of the dominion of Canada,
but as it is an accomplished fa<5t, we may discuss his con-
tention. He would have much preferred a legislative union
of all provinces into our Colony. This course might have
had its advantages, although it is .open to the obje<5tion
urged by him against confederation, namely, that it con-
centrates the brain of the community, leaving a huge
body without any centres of cerebral development, in
the shape of local governments. With singular incon-
sistency he advocates a still further absorption of the
whole of the dominion by distant Washington. " Democracy,"
he tells us, " is still an experiment in America, and
patriotic Americans, as well as Canadians, see reason to
wish for two separate democracies." Is this a reason
why they should wish to see them coalesced ? The United
States, he says, with truth we believe, are not now an
aggressive State. Since the abolition of slavery they have
ceased to be so. They will, therefore, do nothing to
annex Canada against her own wish, although they would
welcome her adhesion. But we are at a loss to see what is
to induce the latter to take a step, suicidal of known inde-
pendence, and which at the present time, we are told, "
has not a solitary supporter. What is to override the
umerous causes he enumerates, which have produced this
England's Colonial Empire. 70 j
unanimity, and which do not appear to us of that temporary
character which he attributes to them. According to him
it is the desire for a larger market for manufactures which
do not exist. This difficulty surely does not arise from
Free Trade England, but from Protectionist America. The
same object has not •prevailed in inducing Belgium and
Holland to unite with France and Germany, Portugal with
Spain, or Switzerland with any of its neighbours. We do
not now remember any small State which for this reason
has voluntarily surrendered its autonomy. They have
generally been found the most tenacious of their natural
life. It is clear, that in any case his prophecy must refer
to a very distant future. But we think that time, so far
from increasing the probability of its fulfilment, would
militate against it. The growth of the Dominion would
render it less desirable for either side to unite — a local pride
and patriotism is likely to be engendered by time. The
distance from England, it is probable, *will every year be
more easily traversed — any causes of discontent are more
certain to be removed, and if the future of that great con-
tinent is to be determined, merely by its commercial interest,
it appears to us that year by year Canada and the United
States will become more self-supporting. One crumb of
comfort is left to us by Mr. Goldwin Smith, and in that we
agree with him. He says, "that when the inevitable day
does arrive, and the great domain of Canada is absorbed
in its mighty neighbour, it will bring into that great con-
federation such an amount of feeling friendly to Great
Britain, that in future no difficulty can arise between the
countries. "
Space will not allow us to follow Mr. Smith through his
discursive and self-contradi<ftory position. Time alone can
prove the result. Nothing in this world can last for ever.
" Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, where are they ?"
When Macaulay's celebrated New Zealander surveys the
ruins of London Bridge, such prophecies may prove to be
too true, but we repeat we can see no signs of such an
event at present, and Mr. Goldwin Smith candidly admits
that there is no feeling in favour of it0igitizedby Google
j. F. Vesey Fitzgerald.
My Picture :
A ROYAL ACADEMY STORY.
By Mrs. Leith-Adams.
HATE everything !
That is, I mean I hate everything I don't like :
above everything else I hate other fellows to say
to me, " My dear fellow, you ought to do this or that."
Why " ought "I, Granby Vibart, to do anything I don't
like?
The fa<5t is, I'm " used up ! "
Year after year, season after season, have I gone through
the same treadmill : dined with people who gave me dinners
I didn't like ; danced with women I didn't like ; gone to
hear music I hated ; and walked my mare, " Bluelight," up
and down that infernal Row until her temper is nearly as
bad as her master's.
And all this I did because people said I " ought " to
do it!
My cousin, Lady Amelia Graham, says, with all the
emphasis a Roman nose and an eye-glass can give : " Granby,
a young man in your position ought to live up to it."
Bother my position ! What's the good of a position at all
if it isn't to let a man do what he likes ?
And yet I can't do what I like !
11 Not been to the Academy ! " said Lady Amelia, as I
lounged for a moment or two over the door of her carriage
in the drive : " Granby, you are too absurd ! "
11 Not been to the Academy ! " cried Miss Vere Benderby,
as we danced those horrid Lancers at Mrs. Pidton's the
same evening, " how droll of you ! You should go, you
know ; some of the pictures are awfully jolly."
Now I hate things that are awfully jolly, and |gMe<gfcfc<jIe
that say " awfully jolly."
My Picture : A Royal Academy Story. 705
1 Well, the day after that I met Tempest — capital fellow,
Tempest : no nonsense about him — at least I thought so,
till he said, as we strolled up " the shady side of Pall Mall,"
*' I must say ta-ta Vibart, I've got to meet some friends at
the Royal Academy. Been? Eh? No? You should, though :
some good bits of colour this year."
Now, isn't it too bad ? And yet they call England a free
country !
I know Lady Amelia wants me to marry : she thinks that
is the corredl way for a man like myself to " keep up his
position."
But I shan't !
The old hall is a vast deal more comfortable without a
lot of women running in and out of the rooms and com-
plaining of the smell of smoke.
Besides, girls are such bores now-a-days, and if you do
see a pretty face (through a veil I mean) the chances are
that it will wash off.
Well, there's an advantage in that, too; I declare I never
thought of it before ! She daren't cry, not even when you
refuse to pay her milliner's bill !
But about the Academy.
It began to feel quite like — well — you know what I mean,
that unpleasant old party in somebody's poem who wouldn't
go away, and would keep on talking, don't you know ?
Everybody bored me about it : so, perhaps, I'd better go,
and then they won't bore me about it any more.
Yes, I'll go and see the pictures, because everybody
wants me to go.
But I won't marry to please everybody ; no, nor yet to
please anybody !
I've seen enough of matrimony.
When a man sees his father's life made miserable by a
woman's temper — his father's heart broken by a woman's
cold, unloving selfishness — sees her try to turn his own son
against him, and to alienate his friends — sees her worry
him in health, and negledt him in sickness, it's enough to
make him fight shy of the " holy bond."
But at last, at the very last, thank God for that, his
hand was clasped in mine, his eyes looked up into my face,
as he laid the burden of life down gladly at God's bidding.
job St. Janus s Magazine.
My lady is happier now that he is gone: she rules it
right royally at The Dower House ; his generous provision
for her makes the wheels of life run easily, and I believe
the only unwilling guest that ever crosses her threshold is
her son.
Mother mine ! a ruined life, a broken heart, lies between
you and me !
I can forgive the past, but never trust the future, there-
fore we are better apart.
No doubt people call me behind my back a brute and a
cruel, unnatural son, to hold aloof, as I do, from " that charm-
ing creature, Lady Vibart ;" but my lady herself is best pleased
to talk of " dear Granby " at a pleasant distance ; she and
1 never quarrel, that would be " bad style," and my lady is
perfect style.
We write civil letters to one another, and take a suitable
interest in each other's welfare, but always at a distance —
a distance that is pleasant to both, and tacitly agreed upon.
My mother so far agrees with Lady Amelia that she
would like me to marry ; it is well I know this, as it gives
me the opportunity of avoiding any girl whom she seems to
single out by her preference.
What strange memories rise up before my mind when I
look back to the old days at Vibart Hall — the days of a
boyhood that held far more shadow than sunshine !
One is especially vivid.
It is that of a child, a little chap of only six years old,
who accidentally knocked down and shattered a hideous
china monster that was a sort of "fetish" of his mother's
(just then in the height of an old china furore). The child's
bitter tears shed over the ruins of this beast, his pleadings
for pardon, his promises of greater care in the future, how
real they all seem to me as I write ! He was driven from
the mother's presence with hard words and cold looks, and
then I seem to see him wandering in the long corridors
where his ancestors look down upon him dark and grim, and
afford him no sort of consolation whatever !
At last he pushes open a door that chances to be
unlatched.
^i 11 • , . Digitized by VjOUyiL
There a lonely man sits among his books, and as the
'iild enters, he turns a sad, yet O most loving face, towards
My Picture : A Royal A aid tiny Story. 707
him, and the boy springs to his knee and nestles in his
arms, sobbing out the story of the china dragon's dis-
solution.
But the soft rustle of a silken robe is heard along the
corridor, a stern voice .summons the boy from the shelter
of his dear refuge, and he evinces some inclination to " show
fight;" a strong arm lifts him down and leads him forth,
while hard words shower down alike upon father and son.
But, dear me, what a long way I have wandered from the
Royal Academy, and the kind efforts of my friends to induce
me to participate in its delights !
I made up my mind to go.
The conscious virtue that resulted from this resolution,
gave a sense of expansion to my manly breast. " England
expects every man to do his duty," and lo ! I was about to
fulfil my country's expectations !
J went.
The day was oppressively hot.
So was the Academy.
No, the Academy was hotter; and the crowd had no con-
sideration for me whatever. The people trod on my toes,
and dug their elbows into my ribs, just as if I had no
4 'position" at all!
I saw several, indeed many, people I knew ; but I had'nt it
left in me to speak to them. I could only smile feebly, and
raise my hat with my usual grace.
The pidtures ?
O, I don't know ; I dare say they were very good ; no
doubt the fellows who painted them thought so; and it
being their profession, they ought to have known if anybody
did.
If they hadn't thought they were good, they would'nt
have taken the trouble to paint them — don't you see ?
I was sorry for the bit of gardenia in my coat, the poor
thing looked so limp, and hung its head in such a melan-
choly and despondent fashion.
I was as sorry for it as I was for myself. But no one can
say that Granby Vibart ever did anything by halves, so I
made up my mind to walk through every room. I bought a
catalogue, and read some of it too. It's no good going* x~
/ov) Si. James's Magazine.
the Academy if you can't bring an opinion or two back with
you to talk about, so when I saw a dense, unpleasantly
warm looking crowd before a pidture, I took a glance over
their heads at the number, marked it in the catalogue,
and made up my mind to tell everybody that it " really wasn't
bad at all." Going through all this sort of thing was naturally
very fatiguing, and I began to feel a good deal exhausted.
So I thought I would sit down.
I did so.
There was only one vacant place, a very small place, and
a woman on either side looked at me as if they thought I
was a brute to take it. I dare say I was ; but then I don't
mind being a brute now and then.
However, it was hotter sitting down than walking about,
and I could see nothing.
Yes I could, though ! For a gap in the crowd about me
framed a woman's face, a face fat and red, and altogether
hideous ; and while I looked at it, it yawned and grew more
hideous still.
Now, I didn't come to the Academy to submit to that
sort of thing, so I made up my mind to go.
Stay — there is a picture worth looking at !
It is a living pi<5ture, too, and changes as you watch it,
like some exquisite dissolving view.
My pi&ure is not in the catalogue, so I had better
describe it.
A small face, perhaps a thought too pale (but then I hate
your red-faced women, so that doesn't matter) ; nut-brown
hair, with a bright gleam of ruddy gold here and there,
not dressed like a furze-bush in front, and a balloon behind,
but shading the brow after a simple, modest, womanly
fashion ; eyes blue — not grey — soft, without being foolish,
full of intelligence, and yet just a little timid, too, as their
owner glances at the ever-moving crowd about her.
Then the sweetest mouth : no, not " like a rosebud,"
nothing so imbecile as that, and not one of those ever-
smiling, teeth-displaying mouths that aggravate one into
reminiscences of Red Riding Hood's " grandmother."
This was a quiet, restful mouth, that you knew could
smile tenderly, or tremble sensitively under the stir of deep
eling.
My Picture: A Royal Academy Story. 709
A figure slight and graceful, and yet not compressed so
as to destroy all ease of motion, after the manner of so
many fools — women, I mean — and a dress —
Well, I can't hit off the dress quite so glibly, but what
I want to say is this : it wasn't bulged out here, or tied in
there, so as to mar those soft, undulating lines that a
woman's drapery should always fall into.
On the little dainty head, with its close-bound, shining
coils of hair, was a simple hat, or bonnet, perhaps ; but be
that as it may, a something made of black lace, and just at
one side nestled a tiny bunch of pale pink roses. I'm sure
that not all the artists, who painted all the pictures, could
have designed a more perfectly artistic bit of colouring than
the nut-brown hair, shadowy lace, and pink roses combined
to form.
Then her voice, "soft and low," as the "wind of the
Western sea," yet clear as a bell —
Well, it's no use going on like this; the long and the
short of it was — / followed her. Not aggressively ; please
dismiss an idea so humiliating to me from your mind at
once. I followed her with all that refined tact which is
such a salient point in my character ; indeed, she never
noticed that I did so ; for this girl, this " pidlure " that I
found so fair a one, was evidently not occupied in wondering
if people were looking at her, but in looking at the pictures,
and enjoying them too, or her sweet face belied her sadly.
She made little marks and notes on the margin of her
catalogue, and now and again turned to an old gentleman
who accompanied her, with such a bright, happy smile, that
I really felt — well, I began to wish that I was that old
gentleman ; no, that's not it, I began to wish that I was in
that old gentleman's place.
" What a deuce of a bore it is," thought I, " that I cannot
stay much longer."
However, there was no help for it ; in a moment of weak-
ness I had promised the Lady Amelia that I would dine at
her house that evening, at an appallingly early hour, and
afterwards escort herself and a friend to hear the dulcet
warbling of Patti.
The " friend " was, it appeared, a tyro to London delights,
710 St. James's Magazine.
and wanted to hear all the opera — (fancy being so fresh
and full of verve as to want to hear " all " of anything).
Also, Lady Amelia was very anxious for me to meet this
gushing child of nature, this " country daisy," come to
town ; the girl being, in fatt, no other than the daughter of
my old friend Sir John Brandreth, C.B., now some years
deceased. Now, I had not seen Sir John for many years
before his death, and though he was very kind to me
when I was a hobble-de-hoy (and, doubtless, exceedingly
unpleasant, as all the tribe invariably are), I didn't want
to meet his daughter. I didn't want to meet anybody's
daughter. I would rather have stayed and looked at the
pi<5tures — no, at my picture, for another hour.
But " time and tide wait for no man ;" so, after making a
mental note that a person who enjoyed a visit to the R. A.
so vividly on one occasion, was sure to come again, ergo,
that J had better come again, I strolled through the rooms
with as much of my wonted air of nonchalant coolness as
the crowd and the heat would permit of, and, jumping into
that most delightful vehicle, a hansom, told the driver
thereof to convey me at his best possible speed to my rooms
in Victoria Street.
At seven, or at all events not later than two minutes past,
I presented myself, duly caparisoned, in the drawing-room of
my august cousin.
Lady Amelia was alone, gorgeous in toilette, and gracious
in manner.
A late debate detained her lord and master at the House ;
it was just possible he might join us during the evening.
The said individual being one of my most fervid detesta-
tions, I listened to this announcement with calm indifference.
" Kathleen, that is Miss Brandreth, you know, Granby,"
began my hostess, —
I knew nothing at all about it, and cared nothing either,
so I bowed, and her ladyship proceeded, " came in rather
late ; she and her uncle, General Lavington "
The topic was totally uninteresting to me ; perhaps, there-
fore, " there was no speculation in my eye " as it met Lady
Amelia's; any way, she stopped short. You see I was
Tood deal tired with my exertions at the Academy, and
My Picture : A Royal Academy Story. 71 r
though, doubtless, the fair " Kathleen " was a charming
young lady, and the General a most respectable old
gentleman, I didn't want to hear about either of them.
I wanted to hear about nobody.
I was wondering how long it would be before I should sec
'* My Picture " again.
And while I was wondering the door opened, and a girl
came quietly in ; a girl with nut-brown hair, dark-lashed
grey eyes, and restful, tender lips — in a word, my fair,
sweet u Picture ! "
Lady Amelia introduced us to each other in the ordinary
way, but there was nothing ordinary in it all to me.
That whole evening was something quite apart from all
my life that had gone before. It was as though I had
passed through a portal that led into an enchanted land.
There never was such music as the opera we listened to
that night.
There never will be again ; for though the story of a love,
that has proved changeless and true " through all the
changing years," ran smoothly as the rhythm of some
flowing melody, there is always a tender suggestive charm
to look back upon in those first sweet chords that vibrated
from one awakening heart to another !
I met Tempest again, the day after.
" Well," he said, " have you been to the Academy yet ? or,
among your other eccentricities, do you cherish an ambition
of being the only man in town who has not been ? "
" Yes, O yes, I've been," I replied, with my usual blase
air.
" And did you see anything among the pidtures that took
your fancy : eh ? "
" Yes, one especially : indeed it took my fancy so much
that I shall never rest until I get it safely down to the old
hall."
And I did'nt !
No, I mean I did.
Don't you see ? I gave nobody any rest or peace until
Kathleen Brandreth became my wife, a|id(jQ^pk "My
Pidture " home !
Olla Podrida.
ADVERSUS CRUCEM.
O, sons of the Prophet ! the war-cry is ringing :
The Christian is roused in the pride of his might ;
And hither his red-handed legions are wringing,
Like locusts in number, their storm-driven flight !
O, Islam stand fast,
Or your empire is past,
Engulfed in the gloom of the terrible night !
O, Islam awaken ! the tempest is breaking !
A red rain of blood shall encrimson your fields,
The Muscovite, honour and empire is staking,
And heavy and sharp is the sword that he wields !
O, Moslem arise !
'Tis your country that cries,
And curst be the craven that falters or yields !
O, bright-gleaming crescent that heretofore led us,
A conquering race, o'er Europa's red plain,
When Pontiff and Kaiser had reason to dread us,
And sabre nor curse could our footsteps restrain —
O, lead us to-day
Through the smoke of the fray,
Mid thunder of cannon, o'er mountains of slain !
O, sword of the Prophet, the lightning out-gleaming,
An angel of Death to the Infidel be,
Whose whip-driven hordes o'er the desert are streaming,
Out -vying in numbers the sands of the sea !
Oh ! mow them like grain
On the red battle plain,
For glory of Allah, of Islam, and thee.
01 la Podrida. 713
Never was there such a diversity of opinion as upon the
merits of this year's Royal Academy Exhibition. Plaudits
by the page, and columns of condemnation, have made
a caricature of criticism. Why cannot critics learn and
practise a happy medium ? That an abundance of medi-
ocrity hangs on the walls of Burlington House no one
will attempt to deny — it always does — but there is some
sterling good work exhibited notwithstanding. It is to
be regretted that such work is represented by a minority
of pictures, and that nine out of every ten visitors to
the Academy will leave with the impression that the
Exhibition as a whole is below the standard (and not a
high standard either) of former years. But oh, ye grum-
bling Britishers, if you have but looked on Leighton's
** Music Lesson" (209), and Frank Dicksee's " Harmony "
(14), you have had your shilling's worth, and should be
satisfied. Incomparably the best two works in the galleries,
full of exquisite and subtle coloring, both teem with ex-
pression, and are executed with a tender care. Much has
been said of Edwin Long's " Egyptian Feast," undeniably
a fine picture, evincing more honest hard work than any
other, but not free from faults. The pose of the female
figure on the left, if not impossible, is certainly unnatural.
We have not space to comment on other pictures worthy of
notice, but we can simply append a list of some not to be
missed. We welcome several unfamiliar names in the selec-
tion. " A. M. F. R." (30, E. Long). "Via Crucis" (47, J. K.
Thomson). "Sacrifice" (51, Marcus Stone). We do not
know what induced the Committee to hang this by the side
of Millais' gorgeous " Yeoman of the Guard," the garish -
ness of which quite kills the exquisite colouring of a capital
picture, whose only fault is the girl's undefined expression
of feature and decidedly ugly neck. You might have given
us a pretty girl while you were about it, Mr. Stone. " His
Legal Adviser" (56, Erskine Nicol). "Constance" (98,
Calderon). "Cowslips" (101, Leslie). "Waiting at the
Gate" (157, Marcus Stone). "Oranges" (194, A. Hill).
" A Sword and Dagger Fight " (203, Pettie). " Home they
brought her Warrior Dead" (215, Calderon). "The Fern
Gatherer" (228, Dobson). "*V™%J^^^ Edith
Elmore), 011c of the best depictions of flowers \\c ever
had the pleasure of seeing. "Summer Showers" (239,
Vicat Cole). " A Bit of Blue " (246, H. S. Marks), an
engraving of which we remember in one of the Annuals
last Christmas. "A Study" (268, Leighton), comparing
favourably by the side of G. F. Watts's wretched por-
trait of Miss Dorothy Tennant (267). A capital likeness
of Robert Browning (270, \V. Fisher). " A Study 011
Albury Heath" (287, E. U. Eddis). " Gleanings" "(310,
Sant). " The Spider and the Fly" (313, H. Stacey Marks),
one of the most speaking pictures in the Exhibition. " The
Lass of Richmond Hill " (379, Leslie). " Friends in Rough
Weather" (380, Hook). "Arundel" (432, Vicat Cole).
"Dreaming Awake" (461 E. S. Osborn). "A Reader"
(469, A. Moore). "A Parting Shot" (474, Fred. Morgan),
a capital picture. " The Fruit Seller " (490, Calderon).
44 Eve of St. Michael" (501, Alice Havers). " The Fortune
Teller" (503, Poynter). "When a Man's Single" (516, J.
Watson Nicol). " The Dove " (566, G. F. Watts). " The
Story of Ruth" (574-6, T. M. Rooke). "Still Waters"
(601, E. H. Fahey). " Lovers Vows" (611 H. Holyoake).
"A Brook" (633, Birket Forster). "Snow in Spring"
(640, G. H. Boughton). "The Prayer of Faith" (655, G.
Smith). " Ars longa, vita brevis" (945, Haynes Williams).
" Baby's Better " (960, Mrs. Staples). " Happy Hours of
Childhood" (972, F. W. W. Topham). "Hero-worship"
(986, Arthur Stocks). " Quiet Quarters " (1050, F. E.
Bodkin). "Roses" (1053, Adeline Schroester). "The
Rivals" (1331, B. Cobbe). "School Belles" (1334, Fred.
Morgan), another of this artist's delightful picture stories.
" A Reaper " (1358, John Burr). " Why are you Wander-
ing ? " (1370, Lidderdale) — the quizzical expression of the
old man's face is capital. " Non Angli, Sed Angeli " (1394,
Keely Halswell). v/
We have not referred to the water colours and architec-
tural drawings. But galleries vm. and ix. contain nothing
more than ordinary, and are rather uninviting after the
show of oils (poor though it be) ; nor have we made special
note of Millais' contributions, none of which, had they been
labelled with a less popular name, would have 'foum£QiO<
Olla Pod r ida. 715
place on the line, or attracted attention. The three
pictures he sends display a master's touch, but are roughly
and carelessly executed. If Mr. Millais does not deem
it worth while to bestow time and care upon his
Academy pictures, he had better follow the example of
Frith, Tissot, Whistler, and others, and stay away
altogether. We could have found many faults with the
hanging ; but our space is limited, and we can only draw
attention to a few pictures, hung almost out of sight, which
deserve a far better place. (15) " Maiden Meditation,
Fancy Free," by H. H. Emmerson, is a capital picture;
the girl's shawl is a realistic bit of painting. (307)
" The Roman Campagna," by Otto Weber; (447) " Falling
Leaves," by T. J. Ellis; (619) "A Shot for the Golden
Ring," by A. Phillips; (1025) "The Blind Flower-girl of
Pompeii," by Jerry Barrett ; (1361) " The New Moon," by
F. Chester, must not be passed by because of their
proximity to the ceiling.
It is a treat to pass from the miscellaneous collection in
the cheerless rooms of Burlington House to the handsomely
decorated and well-lighted salons in New Bond Street, that
Sir Coutts Lindsay has designated the Grosvenor Gallery.
We entered with reluctance, prejudiced against what
seemed nothing more than a mutual admiration club ; we
left with reluctance, with a totally reversed opinion, thank-
ing the courteous and accomplished amateur, who has pro-
vided art lovers in his small but choice collection such
an exhibition of gems seldom to be seen.
Tissot is well represented ; Heilbuth sends nearly twenty
pictures, with almost as many red cardinals. Philip
R. Morris, Frederick Leighton, G. F. Watts, E. Poynter,
C. E. Halle" (the indefatigable Secretary), G. H. Boughton,
('.♦ho sends but one picture, the background of which is an
exquisite bit of landscape painting), Sir Francis Grant,
Mrs. L. Jopling, Millais, L. Alma Tadema (who contributes,
among others, a little gem, called "A Bath"), Holman
Hunt, Spencer Stanhope, Thomas Armstrong, Walter Crane,
Alphonse Lcgros, G. D. Leslie, are names sufficient to
warrant a collection of no ordinarv interest. Albert Moore
/i6 s7. 7 tunes' s Magazine.
sends three pictures of marvellous beauty. His k< Sapphires."
a picture in translucent colors, dwells in the memory as a
celestial vision. We have here for the first time an oppor-
tunity of studying Burne-Jones's work, of which has been
heard much ; he sends eight specimens, the most ambitious
of which is the " Days of Creation/' a wonderful work,
but less to our liking than the " Mirror of Venus/' a picture
full of subtle harmonies of pale colors ; it is a Poet's fancy,
exquisitely rendered. We hope someone will induce Mr.
Rossetti to exhibit next year if his work is equal to this.
Sir Coutts and Lady Lindsay also contribute. What
is no small consideration, the pictures are admirably hung
and well arranged, and can be viewed with comfort, and
at ease : and the rooms are tastefully furnished. Even
to the Art-blind (and there are such) the Grosvenor
Gallery will yield pleasure, if only as an elegant lounge,
and we would recommend such poor mortals to bestow
their patronage on the extensive refreshment department
underneath the gallery, which, we think, is a little out of
place, and will certainly require some such patronage to
make it a remunerative speculation.
It is peculiar to note that now the summer months
have set in (nominally, not naturally) how London
managers, instead of giving us light entertainments, are
fa Hi ngback upon old melodramas. Besides the Courier
of Lyons at the Lyceum, we have the Streets of London at
the Adelphi, and After Dark at the Globe. In reference to
the latter piece, special stress is laid by the Management
'upon the different scenes of the drama, being views of
London in 1877 ; one, however, of the places represented,
a dry arch by the river's bank, ceased to exist upon the
foundation of the Thames Embankment. There is inaccu-
racy, too, in the scene of the Underground Railway ; an
approaching train is made to throw a red-light before it,
whereas the light should be white — red-lights are only upon
the rear of a train. In other respe<5ts the revival is exceed-
ingly well done.
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